


Journey's End

by dalishious (kispesan)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Anti Brialene, City Elves, Dalish Elves, Deviates From Canon, Eluvians, F/F, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Pre-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2018-09-30 03:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10152314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kispesan/pseuds/dalishious
Summary: When Briala goes to investigate a Dalish clan reportedly attacking nearly settlements in Emprise du Lion, she is hardly surprised to discover things are far more complex than what the nobles claimed. What she didn’t expect, however, was a whole new set of playing cards in her revolution deck. By saving the clan, she hopes to gain the solidarity that will cement the Dales’ return to elven hands.





	1. 1

“A moment of your time, _Marquise?_ ” Gaspard had no trouble catching up to Briala with his long strides, and was soon walking by her side on their way to the royal palace’s map room. She knew whatever he had to say was all for games. It always was, whenever he used her title. (And only ever with sarcasm.)

“Should it not wait for the Empress’ ears? Or did you forget yet again of our cooperative arrangement?” Gaspard should know by now she was just as good at playing games as he was. _Better_.

“It’s nothing of her concern, rest assured.” He took the liberty of stepping in front of her, forcing Briala to stop in her tracks. The days of her being shaken by his sturdy physical presence were long gone, and yet it somehow still always took him by surprise whenever she refused to balk. “A good friend of mine was in the middle of expanding his trophy room, when the shipment of bricks he was expecting never showed.”

Briala kept her composure, resisting the urge to smile. “The roads are dangerous these days. Lots of bandits.”

“Of course,” Gaspard nodded. “What makes me wonder though, is what kind of thieves would steal a wagon full of bricks?” The Grand Duke waited for her to respond. When she did nothing but casually tighten the cord holding her dark curls back, he continued. “Coincidentally, I hear several buildings in the Val Royeaux alienage have gotten knew roofs. But that mustn’t be true. How would the rabbits get a hold of such building materials?”

“How indeed.”

Gaspard’s face reddened with frustration, but he was done pressing for information they both knew she wouldn’t give. After a minute, he stepped aside, and the two continued down the low-lit hallway. One two, one two, Briala counted her feet hitting the floor. Her leather shoes made little noise with each step, unlike Gaspard who practically created earthquakes as he walked.

 

They were both supposed to meet Celene over an urgent nature. The small slits in the walls offered little lighting from a sun that only started to rise. The palace’s servants hadn’t even been up yet to light the place, although Briala had no doubt her personal assistants had long been awake to make sure the Empress had her Rivaini tea, and was looking freshly powdered and primped. There were days when the elven woman would find herself waking up and thinking she still had to do such things. It was then she would collapse back in bed and focus on breathing in and out. A few fleek minutes of self-indulgent nothingness, before another day of politics, and another night of rebellion.

Their forced compromise was nothing but a joke, and the three of them knew it. Sure, in the people’s eyes things were resolved, but anyone with even a minor stake in The Game knew better. Gaspard and Celene were still plotting, and Briala was still doing everything in her power to keep the elves afloat. The only difference was they were now all doing it with a smile for the public, and a knife behind the back. It was why Briala was nothing if not suspicious of Celene calling on them, especially at such an hour. Had she not known an Inquisition ambassador would be present as a moderator, she’d assume it was just another setup.

Not to mention she would rather avoid seeing Celene when she could. Whenever she looked at the woman, Briala would always see Halamshiral burning as a reflection in her eyes.

 

Gaspard opened the painted white doors, and prepensely didn’t hold it for her. Celene was seated at the head of the small, teak wood table, similar to the colour of the Briala’s skin. She was still as a statue, and the elven marquise wondered how long she had been holding that position, waiting for them to arrive. Her blonde hair was left loosely flowing over her shoulders, an unusual sight for a formal setting. With her ivory mask, shimmering white gown, pale skin and blood red lips, she looked like a ghostly figure haunting the room.

At the opposite end was Ambassador Zerlinda. She was short, even for a dwarf, and was looking incredibly tired, under the makeup trying to cover the bags under her dark blue eyes. Her light brown hair was cut too short to do anything with it. If it Inquisition pin was proudly rested on her chest, you’d have never known she was an ambassador by her casual clothes and look. Briala had spent a great deal of effort trying to track down anything she could on the dwarven woman, but to no avail. She knew she came from Orzammar, and had a young son. She knew she was possibly the most unlikely ambassador Lady Montilyet could have picked, but perhaps that was purposeful. After all, how could one manipulate a mystery woman?

 

Gaspard greeted his cousin, but did not join her at the table. Instead, he went directly to admire the great map on the far wall. The painting stretched from one end to the other, and from the ceiling to the floor. Emperor Judicael II commissioned the piece in 8:76 Blessed, as a celebration of Orlais’ continued hold of Ferelden. As such, the map was greatly outdated, but had never been painted over.

Briala decided to skip the greetings and get right to the matter. She took the seat to the right and crossed her arms in a supercilious fashion. “I assume there is good reason to call on me amidst a food shortage?”

Celene allowed herself to be taken back. Briala found it hard to tell if she was faking it or not. “I was just speaking with Comte Pierre a few days prior to now. He said nothing of a food shortage.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. But a good Marquise looks after _all_ her people, not just those in the Halamshiral High Quarter.” Gaspard huffed at that, but opted to join them at the table. As he took a seat, Zerlinda rose and passed around a package of papers tucked in her coat.

 

“These letters are from Mistress Poulin of Sahrnia, and Lord Odilon of Port d'Argent. Both control small but profitable communities in Emprise du Lion, and were happy to see their trade restored with the defeat and removal of the Red Templars. Until recently, business was on its way to returning to normal.”

“What changed?” Briala asked, speed reading through Lord Odilion’s flourished writing. She hated needlessly long reports.

It was Celene who answered. “They and several other neighboring villages have requested the Inquisition’s assistance in dealing with an increasingly hostile Dalish clan. Mistress Poulin describes this clan as holding a presence in the area since before her time, rotating through areas but never leaving the Highlands. They’ve experienced scuffles in the past, but have never displayed such aggressiveness. Reports range from kidnapping servants, to full on attacks on the town’s inhabitants. Hunters have stopped venturing into the woods in fear of encounters. Odilon says they have even driven his silver miners out of the quarries.”

“Our forces have just recently pulled out of Suledin Keep, and we don’t want to ruin relations by moving back in. The Inquisitor feels this is a matter better dealt with by the Empire,” Zerlinda explained. It was interesting, Briala noted. She never saw the Inquisition to back down from a request for aid before.

 

For a minute, all four were silent, until Gaspard broke it with his roaring laughter. “Maker’s breath, Celene. I at least thought to give you more credit than this. You called on us for what, a few pesky elves? Just burn them out. You’re good at that.” Briala saw the joy he took on his face, with that added comment slicing the air between them.

“The Inquisition… _suggested_ … we discuss this together,” Celene replied through tight lips. “Did Chevaliers suddenly lose their honour in agreements while I wasn’t looking? Or will you listen to what your Empress has to say?”

“Go on, go on,” Gaspard waved at her, but was still chuckling softly. Briala hardly found things so amusing.

Celene raised her head, showing off her long, soft jaw. So unlike Briala’s squared face, or Gaspard’s sharp features, and yet the subtle movement still held dominance when it came from an Empress. “Cousin, what forces are currently occupying Verchiel?”

“Nearly 300, _Your Radiance_.”

“Good. Verchiel is the closest land to the Emprise with ready troops. Half your men should be more than enough to drive the elves away.”

“With pleasure.”

No. “What kind of discussion is this if you’ve already made up your mind?” Briala stood up, and placed her hands firmly on the edge of the table.

“Weren’t you just complaining about wasting precious time?” Gaspard challenged.

“Let her speak,” Zerlinda countered, and Briala obliged.

“Emprise du Lion is part of the Dales. Am I not the _Marquise of the Dales?_ You invited me here for what, _formality?_ ”

“Then what do you suggest, Bria?” Celene remained stone-faced, even when calling her that name. Briala wanted to tell her not to, but didn’t want to break her train of thought.

“Has no one thought to speak with them?”

“Who, the Dalish?” Briala could tell Gaspard was rolling his eyes behind his mask.

“Why not?”

“The last time we sought to converse with the Dalish, it did not turn out so well,” Celene needlessly reminded her.

“And the last time I spoke with a noble, they tried to have me assassinated.” Which really, was nothing new. Briala had been fending off assassination attempts ever since she practically forced Celene to arrange for her title. There were many humans who refused to accept an elf as their marquise. But thankfully, many more elves who had pledged to her cause. “We know nothing of these people.”

 

Briala squeezed herself past Celene and walked over to the map. She traced her finger along the river running through the Emprise, and recalled her old mentor saying something about it… Both Port d'Argent and Sahrnia rested along the water. The Dalish were likely using the river to travel. “Where were the Dalish last seen?”

“Lady Poulin was the most recent to report trouble,” Zerlinda answered.

“Then I will travel to Sahrnia and seek them out. If this can be resolved without bloodshed, for _both_ sides,” she added, knowing that theirs was the only one they cared about, “then history will certainly speak favourably of your tactfulness.”

Briala had spent twenty years working for Celene. She knew what it took to persuade her into the better direction, whenever possible. And she knew that there was no better motivation for the Empress than how history will remember her. Before the Celene even replied, the elf could see the answer on her face. Her lips puckered, then flattened in decision.

“Then as _Marquise of the Dales_ , I will wait for your final verdict.”

“I beg pardon?” Gaspard gasped, but Celene ignored him.

“If you successfully meet with the elves, and successfully convince them to relinquish their attacks on the townspeople, then I will accept your assurance that they will no longer be a problem.” Briala waited for the ‘ _but_.’ “But,” Celene continued, “I cannot allow this to continue. Should you find otherwise, or if we receive no word from you in three weeks’ time, I will be forced to assume the worst.” At this, she turned to Gaspard. “It is then I expect you will lead your troops to clean things up.”

The man stroked his moustache, contemplating his agreement. “So be it, Celene.”

 

Three weeks. It did not seem like much, but Briala knew it was more than what she could have asked for. And travel was hardly an issue, with her eluvian network.

Briala looked to Zerlinda. “Thank you for your presence, Ambassador. I trust you will bring back record of this discussion to the Inquisition?”

“Of course. I will be sending a raven as soon as I leave here.” It was good to remind her _partners_ of the third-party involvement, should they get any ideas.

“Then unless there is anything else?” Briala asked, looking at the two humans. Celene looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t. Gaspard just looked bored. Which meant he was probably trying to think of a way to take advantage of this. Briala made a mental note of that, and did a pseudo courtesy before striding to the door. “Then I will be in touch by three weeks.”

 

* * *

 

You could count on a single hand the number of elves who, despite making up the majority of Halamshiral’s overall population, lived in the High Quarter. Briala was one of them. It was the former capitol of the Dales, and as such, it was only fitting that she reside in it.

Her home was bigger than the average house, but smaller than the average mansion. You would never see the weatherworn exterior and imagine the inside would contain such well-kept décor.  It even had _three_ bedrooms, one of which she used as an office space, and the other was storage for her people’s gathered eluvians, waiting to be placed in needed locations. There were currently two leaning against the walls, not including the one kept for herself. The one she stepped out of and glided into the room by.

 

There was a loud ruckus of what sounded like books falling to the floor. Briala quickly ran to open the door and find Chelle, one of her newest agents, down on her hands and knees surrounded by a pile of tomes. Her hands were quickly but hesitantly feeling around on the floor, until Briala spotted the brass spectacles she was looking for and promptly bent down the assist the girl. She graciously accepted the aid and, after regaining her vision, looked up with a smile.

“Thank you, Lady Briala.”

“It’s just Briala,” the elder elf reminded gently. The two then worked to collect Chelle’s books.

 

“Shouldn’t you be at the University?” Briala asked.

“Yes, La— I mean, Briala.” Chelle brushed the black ringlets out of her face, her smile gone. “But I have unfortunate news I could not trust to a letter, even a coded one. There is talk among some of the faculty of issuing a mass expulsion of the elven students.”

Briala recoiled, taken by surprise. “On what grounds?”

“Their proposal will say that it’s not safe for the human students. That the elven _terrorists_ pose too much a threat.”

Briala pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. This was the last thing she needed. “Foolishness. There are barely any elven students to being with, what with requiring a noble to sponsor with each application. What possible threat—No, I don’t have time to even question this.” It wasn’t easy arranging Chelle’s entry to the school, but well worth it. For months she had been copying from the library’s restricted sections only accessible by students, which proved useful in tracking down more eluvians as well as secret-hoarding. Chelle was, of course, suddenly at a much higher risk. Briala thought positioning the newbie in an easy spot like the University would be a good test. But with these suspicions rising, one could no longer say that.

There was also the matter of what this meant for all elves, not just the students. It was a demonstration of authority more than anything. Another reminder that every act of kindness ever given could just as easily be taken away. Nobles loved dangling things over the noses of those under them. Briala knew the message well. There were supposed to say _thank you_ , for the slightest hint of equality. There were supposed to _shut up_ and be _grateful_ , for being seen as people. As if it was a gift, an extra effort on a human’s part to not be as much an asshole as they could be.

It seemed the elves would have to send a message themselves. Briala suddenly knew of how to use one of those resting eluvians.

“Chelle, I think it’s time you were let in on our biggest resource…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this story planned out, so hopefully that will help keep up motivation to finish it, because I really want to.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated. I am not a seasoned writer, so advice is especially great!


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Briala could sure use a hand.  
> Gaspard is up to something.

While Briala would have preferred to travel alone, that would have been stupid. And the last thing she needed to add to her list of possible causes of death was stupidity. Still, the party she brought together was far from a battalion. She had to call in a number of her most trusted and skilled agents to assist Chelle’s assignment back in Val Royeaux. She was confident they could pull it off, with the right timing and the right stealth. The only people available that she could spare to bring along were two elven scouts, Noam and “Rook,” and Gav, a warrior with a monstrous sword on his back. Briala would have taken horses through, but had no way of knowing the size of the eluvian they would step out of. The mirrors ranged from wide and tall enough to fit entire carts through, to barely being able to squeeze one person at a time. A scout once came back with a report that said they crawled through some Antivan noble’s vanity.

When Briala began recruiting allies, she was much freer about sharing the password. But with strength in numbers also comes security issues. As her network grew, she stopped spreading the words to every elf who wanted to join the cause. By only sharing knowledge through her agents on a need-to-know basis, things were a lot more manageable. But it also meant only a select few could actually make use of the eluvians. She supposed there were pros and cons to everything.

While Noam and Rook both had been through the eluvians many times over, clearing paths and attempting to make some semblance of a map, this was the warrior’s first time. Gav’s wondrous reaction was nothing out of the ordinary. It was easy to tell he would have happily accepted a break just to take in the scenery. While the trail they were on was rather plain in comparison to others she had travelled—it was really nothing but a beaten down path through a huge, grassy field—there was something truly captivating about being able to stare off into the fog and only guess what was beyond your vision.

 

Briala found slight amusement in watching Gav have fun spreading colours with a touch when he thought no one was looking. But then the joy faded, recalling her old _hahren_ doing the same.

“It’s best to say on the path,” Noam called to him. Briala apparently was not the only one watching. “Unless you want to get attacked by walking corpses.”

“There are corpses here?” Gav asked, quickly dropped the patch of grass he grabbed. The colour faded back to a dulled green as it fell to his feet.

“Perhaps. We haven’t travelled so far down this path, before. The Vir’bora is just… _endless_.”

“The Vir’bora? Is that what it’s called?”

Briala answered this time. “It’s what we’ve been calling it, at least. _The Lost Path_.” It was a Dalish agent that coined the term. A young man who’s clan was killed by chevaliers, and came to live in the Verchiel alienage. It was quick to catch on among the scouts. She liked to think Felassan would have approved.

“Speaking of _lost_ … Are you sure we’re going the right way, Briala?”

Briala closed her eyes. The eluvians recognized her, and she in turn could feel them all, too. There were those that she knew well; the ones she frequently passed through. Even from where they stood, she could pinpoint the one that led back to her home in Halamshiral. It was more difficult to focus on those she had yet to travel through, as there were so many. Some far away, giving off just a feint whisper of a presence. Some close by, but ones she dared not touch, giving off a sinister, poisoned vibe from forces unknown. And some that felt crisp, clean, and just waiting for her. Like the one at the end of their beaten stone path, giving off a cool smell of frosty pine needles. “I’m sure,” she answered.

“Well, I don’t see any corpses.” It was the last thing the warrior said before the ground crumbled out from under him.

 

Gav was gone in an instant, and the hole grew. Briala felt her own footing shake as a giant crack sprouted from where her ally once was, and she quickly dove forward. She landed in a roll, and rose again to start running from the growing crater. The ground beneath her continued to quake, causing her to stumble with each stride, but she managed to keep herself from falling over. The scouts were not so lucky. When she could feel things settle, Briala came to a halt and turned her head. While Noam was standing safely on the opposite side of the newly formed cavern, Rook was barely holding onto a large jutted rock, dangling above the seemingly endless pit.

“Hold on!” The scout above her called.

“ _No shit!_ I need— _Fuck_ —Get me a fucking rope!”

“I have a rope,” Briala called to them, and pulled her pack off her shoulders. It was not a very sturdy one, meant for pitching a tent rather than holding a person, but it wasn’t like they had any other options lying around. The marquise unravelled the rope, and stepped as close to the edge as possible, without risking falling in herself.

 

Briala picked up a good sized rock off the ground, and tied it to the end of the rope for throwing. “I’m going to toss this across, then you drop it down to her,” she instructed Noam, who was now kneeling above their fallen friend. Before giving them a chance to reply, Briala did as she said. Noam caught the rope in their arms, but wasn’t ready to breathe a sigh of relief yet. They dangled the rope over the edge, right next to the stone Rook was hanging from.

“Jump for it!”

The scout jumped for it.

The rope snapped.

The scout fell, her scream echoing for what seemed like forever.

Briala and Noam were still and silent.

 

“I’ve never seen a trap like this before,” Briala finally said, after a few minutes of nothingness.

The remaining scout was slow with their words. “I don’t think this was a trap.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been to Ferelden and back through these eluvians. I’ve seen corpses, and demons, and traps with no explanation other than magic. But I’ve never seen this place just… crumble in on itself.”

“So, what… You think the Vir’bora is… deteriorating?”

“I don’t know.” Their eyes wouldn’t leave the crater, as if staring into it enough would penetrate the gaping darkness. Just how deep was it? Was there even an end? Looking into it, there was just… nothing. Like the Vir’bora really did just swallow itself.

After another break of silence, Noam got off their knees. “If you wait there, I’ll… See if I can’t go around.”

“No,” Briala was quick to stop them. “Don’t go off the path alone. The eluvian we’re looking for isn’t far; I can make it myself.” She wrapped the remaining piece of rope around her arm, and tied it back to her pack. “Go back to Halamshiral. You have my permission to take whoever and whatever you need back here to… build a bridge, or something.”

Noam looked like they wanted to object, but then looked down at the pit where Rook and Gav disappeared, and nodded. They understood. No need to lose any more than who was already lost. “As you say, Briala.”

 

The two parted ways. Briala tightened her grip on her pack’s straps, as she internally cursed about just how many of her people she had to lose, trying to save them.

 

It was hard for Briala to keep walking without fearing she too would spontaneously fall to her death. Her pace was a lot faster, now. Out of her peripheral vision, she could spot shadows moving in the fog every so often. She kept her daggers in hand, ready for an attack. But whatever the hidden horrors around her were, they stayed distant. She used her own advice and made sure to stay on the path and only the path. Even when a large, fallen tree blocked her way, she took the time to climb over it rather than go around. Only once did she stop walking, to relieve herself. Not to eat, when she could chew on dried bread and sip from her flask as she walked. Not to catch her breath or rest her legs, even when she was sure they might fall off. Not even to get rid of the rock in her shoe that had been bothering her for hours.

 

The field grew rockier, and the grass dwindled. Soon the shape of a grey mountainside cut through the fog, and the field seemed to dip into a valley below it. The path narrowed, and clung to the side of the mountain. The incline was so slight that Briala didn’t notice it at first, until she looked over the edge and realized the growing distance between her and the valley below. Eventually the fog engulfed it.

 

It was easy to spot the eluvian when she approached it; the colours stood out like a sore thumb, propped up against the dull rock wall. At first Briala was taken back by how short and wide it was, until realizing it was laying on its side. She tried to lift it, but it was too heavy. She spoke her passphrase out loud anyway, and was relieved to see that it still awakened perfectly. The warped reflection spiralled into a blue pool of light. She would have to crawl through it.

 

Briala got down on her hands and knees, when a loud, crackling sound came from behind her. She turned her head to see a skeletal hand had erupted from the ground. It grabbed her ankle, and like tugging a thread through a needle, easily pulled her away from the eluvian.

More hands sprouted up around her, reaching to get her in their grip too. Briala twisted onto her back, and the hand around her ankle was forced to let go. But just as she did, another sunk its fingers into her left arm, puncturing the skin like knives. She screamed, and felt her dagger slip. While furiously kicking her feet in any direction, Briala began hacking away with her second dagger at the wrist of the decayed hand. The bone was brittle, but still bone. It took many slashes before the wrist broke free. She tucked her arm into her chest tightly to try and slow the bleeding, with the finger tips still stuck in her flesh.

Briala rolled away from the clawing hand under her, and swiped her dagger. It slid through the fingers, and the hand clamped down, snatching her weapon away. She looked to the dagger she dropped, then looked to the eluvian. If she went for her weapon, she’d have to crawl back through the hands to get to the mirror. If she went for the mirror, she’d be going to the Emprise unarmed.

 

Briala sighed, and rolled through the eluvian.

 

* * *

 

Gaspard coincidentally, of course, bumped into the Inquisition ambassador on the stairway outside her office. She did not seem surprised by him in the slightest, but remained ever cordial.

“Grand Duke,” Zerlinda nodded slightly, “I’m surprised you haven’t left for Verchiel yet. What keeps you in Val Royeaux?”

“Besides the fine wine and weather, you mean?” He chuckled, and waved his hand down the stairs. Zerlinda gave a suspicious glance, but continued walking with him. “I had hoped to speak with you, Ambassador.”

 

Gaspard had been in her office only once before, and nothing had changed since. It was hard to imagine someone so small needing so much desk space, but Zerlinda sure made use of it. Papers were spread out over the table from one end to the other. It would be very easy to lose track of them. A row of small candles were lined along the top edge, with every other one lit at that moment. She sat down in her large, cushioned chair, and offered Gaspard a stool. He chose to remain standing.

The Grand Duke looked to his left, at the single portrait on the wall. It was off a small dwarven boy, about the age of ten, with a striking resemblance to Zerlinda. Right down to the dimples. He had a big smile that would have been bigger if he wasn’t missing two of his front teeth.

“Your son?” He asked. The woman had a fond smile, and nodded. “I met him the other day, you know. He was watching the guards training.”

Zerlinda’s soft smile gone and immediately grew on the defence. “Yes,” she replied slowly. “He fancies himself being a great knight someday.”

“Poor lad. I imagine his dreams were crushed when you told him far and few humans would accept a _dwarf child_ as a squire.” Her frown deepened. “Unless of course, you _didn’t_ tell him.”

“I don’t see how that is any of your business, Your Highness. Now, if all you wanted to talk about was my son—“

“Oh, but it could be my business,” he interrupted her. “After all, wouldn’t it be a shame to see such enthusiasm go to waste? Especially when one _could_ arrange for otherwise.”

Zerlinda’s eyes widened, and Gaspard could see the gears turning behind them. “Are you saying… you could make my son a _chevalier?_ ”

Gaspard laughed. “ _Maker_ , no.” The very thought was downright insulting to him. A dwarf chevalier. How absurd. “But a soldier’s apprentice? Now that I could definitely put into motion.” The ambassador bit her lip, and he continued to tempt her. “It would be hard work, mind you. Caring for horses, carrying belongings, cleaning armour… But your son could be the Grand Tourney’s next Champion someday, with the right training.”

She wanted this. It was clear to see she wanted this. But the woman wasn’t a moron. “And what would His Highness ask in return, for this?”

Gaspard produced a note from his coat pocket. He unfolded the paper and slid it towards her on the desk. “I only ask one thing: I know you already sent your report to the Inquisition. I think it’s important they get a revised one, containing the full truth.”

“And this is your idea of the truth, then?” Zerlinda said, picking up the paper and waving it in his face. “You want me to accuse Marquise Briala of _treason?_ ”

“The woman is actively committing treason as we speak,” he spat. “Briala is the very definition of a _thorn in our side_. One we all know still pulls the strings on this elven uprising puppet show. And now we send her to the Dalish, when she has a history of conspiring with Dalish spies.”

“And you have a history of tearing up the sodding Dales.”

“And I would do it again.” Gaspard put his hand on a stack of paper, and leaned over her. “All I want is to see the survival of this great nation. I will not see her fall to the mercy of _animals_.

The question is what you want, Ambassador. What future do you think your son will have? Perhaps a farmer? Perhaps he’ll join the Inquisition, just like his mother. Or perhaps the _Carta?_ ”

Zerlinda’s shoulders started to shake. “What I want,” she snarled, picking up his paper, “Is for you to get out of my damn office.” The dwarf ripped the sheet in half, and tossed the pieces in her waste bin.

Gaspard narrowed his eyes and pouted. Slowly, he stood up straight, without breaking eye contact. “As you say, dear Ambassador.”

 

Zerlinda shut the door behind him, rather loudly. Gaspard couldn’t say he was surprised. It was hard to expect someone of her kind would be open to discussion. _The Inquisitor_ , on the other hand… The Inquisitor may be a _mage_ first and foremost, but he came from noble origins. Albeit quaint noble origins, but noble nonetheless. Gaspard was sure he could be persuaded to see things the right way. With the right push.

The Grand Duke waited outside the gates of the palace. He did not have to wait long, until a tall figure approached him, cladded in black, with a bow and quiver on her back. Wisps of long, strawberry blonde hair fell loose from her hood, cradling her pale face. She pulled back her hood and met his keen gaze with striking grey eyes.

“Well?” Gaspard asked, expectantly.

The Bard held up a dead raven, with a message still tied to its leg. “Shot him right over the ramparts.”

“Good, then.” He pulled several papers from Zerlinda’s desk out of his sleeve. One should always have a secondary plan, after all. Gaspard could hardly believe he had to resort to forgery. But if that’s what the Maker demanded in bringing glory back to Orlais, then that’s what had to be done. “It seems we must do our dear Ambassador’s job for her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very, very much for the positive feedback and the advice so far! It's all greatly appreciated and motivating! :)
> 
> I found this website, hemingwayapp.com--It was really helpful in editing this chapter, so I hope there is a little improvement. But a very good suggestion I received on the first chapter, is looking for a beta reader. If you'd like to offer to do this, the only requirement I ask for is that you are familiar with Canadian or UK English, not American English. (I.e. Yes, it is 'defence,' not 'defense.' Yes, it is 'centre' not 'center.' Yes, it is 'armour,' not 'armor.')


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Briala reaches Sahrnia, but things do not go as expected.

 

It was midday when Briala rolled out of the eluvian onto the cold stone of what she eventually identified as the undercroft of Suledin Keep. If not for her elf eyes, she wouldn’t have been able to find her way out of the dark crypt-like storage space.

The fortress was like a maze. In an attempt to find the exit, she instead wound up at the top of a tower. The place appeared to be abandoned not very long ago; an Inquisition flag still hung at the mast, and empty vendor tables were still set up in the courtyard. Briala tried to search for any discarded weapons lying about, but was unsuccessful. So she decided to go back down to the undercroft and curl up next to a pile of wooden crates. After taking the time to tend to the wound on her wrist, she did a quick recount of her inventory, most importantly making sure that Celene’s sealed order granting her permission to act as she saw fit was still intact. Satisfied, Briala tried to get some much needed rest.

 

The temperature was colder than she expected for late spring. Where in Halamshiral the buds had long since bloomed, here there was still clumps of snow on the ground, and the green of the trees and grass was not in fact green, but instead coated in a sparkling frost. The wind chill was the worst of it. Briala didn’t want to emerge from the Keep, knowing full well how underdressed she was in a light coat. Underdressed, unarmed, and without her scouts to lead the way.

Odd as it may look, she opted to tear down a tarp covering an old painting and wrap it around her, when she finally mustered up the energy to move. It was better than just the cotton sleeves covering her arms, that’s for sure. From the top of the Keep, Briala had spotted a tower nearby, with a small settlement beneath it, and a very large bridge crossing over what must be the river far below the steep rocky cliffs. The buildings looked to only be half-assembled; perhaps still under reconstruction from the war, but without a doubt occupied. The people there could direct her to Sahrnia.

 

Part of her wanted to explore the Keep more. There were statues all around, some clearly elven, and some clearly from later human occupation. It was an odd and conflicting mix that seemed… _off_ , to see a statue of an Andrastian disciple with two of Falon’din’s owls on the wall behind it. Or was that Dirthamen? No. Dirthamen was the _ravens_. Briala was sure if Felassan were here, he’d look up at them and share a lengthy story of complete irrelevance, followed by a side-comment that actually mattered. But he was not, and Briala had places to go.

 

The trail from Suledin Keep’s gate led straight down to the village, where Briala could hear the sounds of construction. A large group of men were lifting clay shingles up onto a bare roof with a pulley-system.

When one of the men saw her approaching, his eyes went wide, and his grip loosened. He backed up into the worker behind him, who also let go, and the pile of shingles came clattering down, pulling the front man still clinging to the rope upwards. The man screamed, dangling in the air, before letting go and falling to the ground with a hard thump. But the others did not go to his aid. Instead, one grabbed a hammer, and the other pulled a dagger from the side of his boot.

“Maker’s breath,” the dagger one whispered, as the two kept backing up as she kept getting closer. Briala turned around to see what they were looking at, but there was nothing. Which meant they were reacting to _her_.

“B-back off, spirit!” The other one stuttered, then looked to his comrade. “See? Damn elves even haunting us beyond the grave!”

“Excuse me?” Briala questioned. A heavy gust of wind blew in her face, nearly tearing the white tarp out of her hands.

“Superstitious idiots,” the man on the roof called down to them. He was not Orlesian like the other two. “She’s no spirit, you morons.”

“She came from the fortress!”

“The Inquisition held up there for months. No ancient elven hauntings. No angry spirits. Just a lot of dust and red lyrium to clear out.” The man on the roof slid down the propped up ladder, and pulled the scarf down covering his mouth to reveal a thick red beard and a freckled face with a pinkish complexion. He looked to be a little younger than Briala.

“Ignore them, missy. You’re a little lightly dressed for the middle of Cloudreach, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not in Halamshiral,” she jested in return.

“You’re a long way from Halamshiral up here. Why don’t you come inside?” He pointed over his shoulder at the house they were working on, and Briala graciously accepted. She followed him in, eyeing the other two who refused to lower their weapons.

 

“That’s some nice armour you’ve got for uh, someone like you… But won’t do you much good against the weather. Sit tight and I’ll see if I can find you a coat or something.” Briala nodded, and he disappeared back outside.

There were large cracks running along the walls of the house, where it looked to be broken and then built back up again. There was no furniture, but a small fire was lit in the centre. Briala quickly dropped to her knees in front of it, and held out her bare hands to feel its warmth with a sigh of relief.

After a few minutes, the man returned with an old leather coat lined with black fur. It looked like it was fit for a dwarf. “This is the closest I could find your size. If you roll out the sleeves it should be fine, but it might be a little short on the waist.”

“Thank you,” she nodded, and let the tarp fall to the floor to put it on. The coat only came down to her waist, but as the man suggested, with the sleeves rolled all the way out at least her upper body was much warmer already. She had to admit it also looked surprisingly okay with her blue leather chest plate and dark grey chaps. “If I may ask, what was wrong with those two men?”

 He waved his hand dismissively as he explained. “The locals have always been scared of that Keep; won’t go near it, even when the Inquisition was held up there. They say it’s haunted by ancient elven spirits.”

“I take it you’re not a local.”

“I’m as much a Marcher as it gets, missy. I was visiting Redcliffe when the Inquisition recruited the mages, and joined myself. They stationed me here for months. After they left, I decided to stay and help rebuild things; always been a better carpenter than a soldier, anyway.”

“That’s honourable of you.” The man just shrugged.

“If I may ask, though… what _where_ you doing in the Keep, without even a damn coat?”

“Sightseeing,” she said sarcastically. “Unfortunately it’ll have to be cut short, as I have business in Sahrnia. I don’t suppose you could give me directions?”

“Oh, Sahrnia’s just a hop, skip and a jump from here!” The gentleman waved at her to follow him back out of the house, now that she was warm. More workers had gathered around the house, and Briala locked eyes with them. She was a little nervous to turn her back, the way one of them was glaring daggers. Most of the others just looked like they were about to wet themselves.

Briala followed the man to the edge of the settlement, and her gaze traced the direction he pointed in. “You go down that path right there, and it’ll take you right to Drakon’s Rise. Peer over the cliff from there and you’ll see Sahrnia. Although I don’t suggest you try climbing; follow Alphone’s Passage down and around. There’s one of them big elven bird statues marking the way, you can’t miss it.”

“Down the path to the cliff, then look for a bird statue,” Briala summarized, and he nodded. “Thank you for the help. Here…” She fished a couple crowns out of her pack’s front pouch, and handed them over. He smiled in return, and she headed off, grateful that someone was there to stop what would have been an unfortunate incident.

As the man said, it was an easy and short walk, mostly sheltered by large boulders, making the wind less of a nuisance. What he failed to mention though, was how _beautiful_ the view was. When she reached the cliff, Briala was especially taken back by how it looked as if someone took a huge scoop out of the land where the village rested. The river went as far as she could see in either direction, up over a waterfall on one side and down on another. The water parted around a small piece of land with a tawdry tower on it, and that somewhat spoiled things. Across the river was the side of a mountain with a massively sudden incline, and casted one giant shadow over the water. And the _trees_ —there were as many trees as there were freckles on her face. Some were tall enough that if they were closer to the cliff, Briala was sure she could have reached out and touched them. She imagined they must have looked even more impressive up close. They must have been ancient.

Briala followed the passage the man suggested. A too-curious-for-its-own-good nug trailed her for a while. She said it was lucky she wasn’t a hunter, to which it just squeaked and kept circling her. Maybe it smelled the remains of her food in her bag. It was certainly easy to see why Divine Victoria loved them so much. The nug bored of her soon enough though, and she was alone again.

She walked for a short time. While Briala did not push herself as she did in the Vir’bora, she felt no less tired, as if her rest had done nothing. When the path cut into a cave, she took a very short breather beneath a giant statue of Fen’Harel. Flowers were strewn across the statue’s edge, and were most definitely placed just recently. Since she had a hard time believing a human would do such thing, she had to assume a Dalish elf must have passed through not long ago.

 

When Briala exited the tunnel, Sahrnia was in sight. From her aerial view over the cliff, she didn’t realize how tall the wall around the village was. The gate was protected by archers stationed on platforms and spikes dug into the ground, all around the outer wall. When Briala approached, she noticed the platforms were decorated with tons of small scorch marks, as if someone launched little firecrackers at them. The walls too, where damaged. Arrows that had yet to be plucked out were dotted on either side of the gate. There was definitely a recent attack.

 

The elf made sure to raise her hands above her head as she approached, aware of the archers all nocking and setting their arrows.

“Hold your fire,” she called to them, “I am Marquise Briala of the Dales, here regarding a letter from Lady Alban Poulin.” The archers on the towers relaxed, and one called over the wall to have the gates open. “Thank you,” she said, nodding, and entered the village.

 

Contrary to the guards posted along the wall, inside the village seemed to be moving at a regular day’s pace. By the gate, an old lady was handing coin over in exchange for fresh fish from a man behind a small stall. Two young boys were drawing things on the wall with a burnt stick. A young elf was chopping firewood, with a woman yelling at him to hurry up from the window above. At the centre of the village was a looming statue of Andraste, where a priestess stood at its feet, bellowing out versus of the Chant.

 

Briala drew her eyes to a house with a crudely made sign that read ‘Arms for Sale’ hanging on the door, and went up to knock. An elderly woman with a snowy white hair opened up.

“You’re selling weapons?” she asked. The woman nodded, and stepped aside for her to come in. She saw that swords, shields and axes of all kinds decorated her living room walls. “You have an impressive collection. Can I ask why you’re selling it?”

“It was my late husband’s, and they’re certainly not doing me any good,” she hummed.

“Do you have any bows and arrows? Or daggers?”

“Figured you’d ask that. No, he didn’t collect bows. But let me see here…” the woman shuffled over to the top of the fireplace mantle, where a pair of small, silverite daggers where on display. She picked them off and looked them over. “Would these do?” She asked. “If not, I could see what he had tucked away in the attic…”

“Can I see?” Briala asked. The woman handed them over, and Briala examined the blades. True to its name, they gave off a shimmering silver glow, the metal’s resistance to rust keeping them in perfect condition. They were smaller than what she was used to, most likely made with showmanship in mind rather than practicality. But beautiful. “How much?”

“Oh dear… I don’t suppose you have a royal on you?”

Briala knew they were worth _much_ more than that, but she didn’t carry a whole lot on her. And so she pulled a single gold coin out of her back, and sheathed her new daggers in the empty holsters on her belt. “Perhaps there’s something else you could help me with; what happened outside the gate?”

The woman shook her head. “Right in broad daylight, a trio of those Dalish elves attacked, shouting all kinds of things in that odd language of theirs.”

“That’s so strange,” Briala matched the woman’s confused tone perfectly.

“Well, our brave boys killed two of them, and Mayor Mayer has one locked up.” Mayor Mayer. Huh.

“You’re saying there’s a captured Dalish here, right now?”

The woman nodded. “I wish they’d just kill the poor thing. No one can get any rest with her shouting.”

“I don’t suppose you might have any idea where their camp may be?”

 

Before the woman could answer, there was a knock on the door, and another elderly human woman let herself in. Unlike anyone else Briala had seen around the village thus far, this lady was dressed in finely crafted noble attire.

“Pardon to interrupt, but I was told there was someone here to see me?” She asked, and Briala stepped forward.

“You must be Mistress Poulin. My name is Marquise Briala, on behalf of Empress Celene.” We received your letter about some trouble with a local Dalish clan?”

“I sent that letter to the Inquisition, not the Crown, but yes.”

“The Inquisition felt it best to defer this matter to us.” Briala flashed the smile she reserved for dealing with nobility, and followed the woman out the door. “As Marquise of the Dales, Empress Celene sent to investigate.”

“We don’t need an investigation, we need military support,” she huffed. “I’ve put a lot of funds into this village, after the Red Templar mess; I will not see it all go to waste. Meanwhile the Mayor refuses to acknowledge the problem, and refuses to listen to me. I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

Briala wasn’t sure where Poulin was taking her, but she continued to follow the noble through the village. Whenever they passed anyone, the Mistress received dirty looks. “Why would he be resistant to your advice?”

Poulin answered slowly. “Ah, well… There was a _minor controversy_ with the Templars. I made sacrifices the Mayor was not willing to. I kept this village going when he abandoned it. But it won me few favours,” she sniffed. “The Inquisition demanded I pay reparations, and I have. Now I want to see that my money was worth it.”

Briala could tell there was a little more to the story then that, but knew it was not the time to press for more information. Still, she did not trust this woman as far as she could throw her.

 

Mistress Poulin let herself into another house, and Briala followed. This one was in much better condition than any others, and even had flower beds on either side of the porch.

“Mayor Mayer?” The noble called, “There is a Marquise here to see you, sent by Empress Celene.”

“Damnit woman!” An angry voice shouted back from upstairs. “You sent that fucking letter, didn’t you.” Down the steps came a gruff looking, middle aged man in a thick red waistcoat. He had a pale face that reminded her of a peeled onion, and was holding a pen in one hand and a pipe in the other. The man tucked the pen behind his ear and took a puff from his pipe, filling the room with its foul smell. It was an odour Briala was used to, though. Often times when serving tea as a little girl, noble men found enjoyment in blowing their smoke in her face, wanting to see her choke on it. But her mother taught her how not to react to it.

“I did.”

“Do I need to remind you _who_ is the Mayor of this town?”

“You just might, if you decide to leave for your cottage at the next sign of trouble again.”

The Mayor didn’t respond. Instead, he sized up Briala, and turned back to Poulin. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“My name is Marquise Briala of the Dales, Ser Mayer,” she answered politely. Despite how much she wanted to kick him in the shin already.

“ _Ah_. I see.” Suddenly it clicked for him. “I know who you are, alright.”

“Then I hope you’ll be able to help me, help you. As Marquise of the Dales, Empress Celene sent to investigate your trouble with the Dalish,” Briala retold. “I have doctrine issuing my authority, if you wish to see it.”

“That’s not necessary,” he waved her off, and took another puff of his pipe, which he seemed to be far more interested in than the conversation. “What is it Emprise Celene expects you to do, exactly?”

“I was hoping to track down. To talk to them.” Mayor Mayer cackled in response. It reminded her of Gaspard. “Is there a problem, Ser?” She asked, with a strained straight face.

“Just that we’ve been after that very question for days now.” He looked at the noble woman beside them, “That’ll be all, Lady Poulin,” then to Briala, “You, elf. Come with me.”

 

Ignoring the fact that he was in his slippers, the Mayor led Briala out his backdoor, towards a small fishing shed adjacent to the river. Outside the door, a young Templar was standing guard. “A few days ago the Dalish launched quite the pathetic attack. Three hunters brazenly started firing at our gates,” he explained.

“I already spoke with someone who said as much.”

“Then you must also know we successfully captured one of them. Been questioning her for days, trying to get her to tell us where her camp is. But she won’t budge. But who knows, maybe she’ll be more receptive to one of her own kind.”

“Who is this?” The Templar asked, not so casually reaching for his sword.

“Relax your arm, Ser Harland. She’s here to question the prisoner.”

“Right then.” The Templar loosened his stance, pulled a vial out from his belt pocket, and handed it to Briala. “She tries anything, yell and smash this over her head. _Magebane_.”

“The prisoner is a mage?” Briala raised her eyebrows.

“Not any kind of mage you’d know.” Harland unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “Well? Go on in, then.” Briala looked up at the Mayor, who was admiring his reflecting in the water. She sucked in her cheeks, and went inside.

 

The walls of the shack were lined with fishing gear, but was otherwise completely bare, save for the elven woman tied to a chair in the middle of the floor. Briala guessed she was about her age, but it was hard to tell with what poor shape she was in. Her short, straight black hair parted slightly off centre was dirty and stuck to her scalp, her golden skin was blotched with bruises, and her pitch black eyes were puffy and sleep deprived. Her top lip had a fresh scar from a good metal punch to the mouth, one Briala assumed came from the Templar outside. By far her most distinguishing trait though, was the sun-like tattoo around her right eye. Indeed, she didn’t _look_ like mage; she wore a long fur coat and hide boots, not robes. The woman didn’t say a word, just stared at Briala expectantly.

 

“Why did you attack Sahrnia?” The woman opened her mouth, revealing a gap between her two front teeth, then closed it again. Briala could see she was contemplating whether or not to speak, and decided to backtrack. “What’s your name?”

Briala thought she wasn’t going to answer this either, until finally the captured elf spoke. “Ethena of Clan Aradin.”

“Briala of Halamshiral.” She took a hesitant step forward. “Did Sahrnia do something to your clan?”

This time she was quick to respond. “Yes. But what’s new there, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this isn’t exactly the first time the humans have tried to poison us!” Her voice escalated. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been nearly driven out of our home. But we won’t. We can’t. This is our journey’s end.” Briala wasn’t sure what that meant, but was more focused on the first part anyway.

“Sahrnia tried to poison you?”

“Sahrnia. Port d'Argent. Salmont. Lacville. They clean up their red mess, and dump it where we camp. Make us sick.”

“Wait,” suddenly it was coming together, “You mean red lyrium? They’re dumping red lyrium on your land?”

“It’s not _our_ land,” Ethena corrected her. “Land is owned by no one.” Legality disagreed. “But it’s the land we routinely settle on, have settled on for ages gone past, _and_ _they_ _know this_.”

“Ethena, this is serious. If Empress Celene knew…“ But Briala stopped herself. No. Even if Empress Celene was aware of this, Briala knew better now than to believe she would care without a push to. She had proven otherwise. The Dalish elf seemed to register that Briala had silently corrected herself, for all she did was raise a single eyebrow in acknowledgement. “If _I_ knew,” Briala revised, “I would have done something.”

“You know now. So what is it you’ll do, Briala?”

Briala drew one of her daggers and stepped behind the woman. She cut the ropes wrapped tightly around her body, and Ethena instantly stretched her shoulders. “Grand Duke Gaspard is preparing to launch an attack on your people in two weeks’ time from Verchiel, unless I can convince Empress Celene to call it off. I need you to take me to your clan, to speak with your Keeper.” Ethena looked at her with surprise. Briala wasn’t sure if it was from her demonstrating knowledge of their Keepers, or of her freeing the woman. Perhaps both. Either way, she didn’t argue.

 

Briala opened the shed door, and to her upmost expectancy, Ser Harland immediately drew his sword at the sight of Ethena. She wasn’t quite sure what happened, but the Templar’s sword suddenly started emitting a white glow, and Ethena took a step back.

“I’m taking this woman into my custody,” Briala said, quickly jumping in his path.

“You have no authority to do so.”

“I have a doctrine from Empress Celene herself that says I do,” she challenged.

Mayor Mayer, who had been waiting for her it seemed, narrowed his eyes with suspicion. “On second thought, I _would_ like to see this doctrine.”

Briala eyed them both as she dug the sealed letter out of her bag, and handed it over to the Mayor. “Here.” Ethena remained silent from behind her.

The Mayor cracked open the seal and read through it thoroughly. Then, as he handed it back to Briala, then said with heated words, “This _doctrine_ gives you permission to _purchase land in Val Fontaine_.”

 

Briala’s heart was caught in her chest as she quickly skimmed over the letter herself, before Harland charged at her.

 

Celene had set her up.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, being wounded actually effects your ability to fight.

After Divine Victoria officially disbanded the Circles of Magi, Ser Harland, like many Templars, found himself without a purpose. The Templar Order’s new mandate made them into an independent faction of knights, working for the people of Thedas, rather than the Chantry. Many of his brothers and sisters were not happy with this, and decided to leave the Order. They joined the army, or a mercenary group, or went off on their own. Some decided to put down the armour for good and retire. But Harland didn’t want to retire. Harland wanted to continue the fight against the mages; now more than ever, with the Divine apparently off her rocker. And so when Sahrnia requested Templar assistance with a captured mage, he jumped to the opportunity. A _much_ more worthy task for his skills than guarding farmers, or cleaning up battlefields.

 

The Dalish mage was strange. He could feel her connection to the Fade sure enough, but it was an odd one. Thinner than what he was used to, but unquestionably there. And just as the visiting curly haired elf leaped out of the way of his sword, he could sense the Dalish drawing from that connection. She grabbed what he thought was a plain chunk of wood from her pocket, and from each end it sprouted ethereal, glowing limbs of a bow. When the mage held up the bow and made a drawing motion with her other hand, an equally magic arrow appeared. Harland could only briefly recall hearing about similar magic in his training; that of a _Knight Enchanter_ , able to conjure a sword out of nothing. Figures the Dalish would know something equally weird.

The mage released her magic arrow, and it hit Harland square in the chest. He felt the impact against his heavy plate with a forceful push back, and looked down to see black scorch marks on the metal. When he looked up again, the elf had manifested another arrow. This time however, the Templar quickly severed her Fade connection with a dispelling blast, just as she released it. The arrow fizzled out of existence, as did the conjured bow.  

“Nice try,” Harland grinned, and lunged at her with the butt of his blade. He could kill her, he was sure of that. He was sure of several ways he could kill her, and had spent a great many hours thinking about each one during her interrogation. But that wasn’t what the Mayor was paying him for. He went for her mouth, hard enough to open up the cut he’d given her earlier, but not enough to knock out any teeth. He couldn’t risk her possibly hurting her tongue, after all. She was stunned, and he swung his elbow up across her jaw, sending the mage falling backwards. Harland was about to knock her out, when he felt a hand snatch his ankle, and pull his foot out from under him.

Harland rolled off the bloodied mage, who in turn rolled away from him as the rogue jumped on top of his back. He felt the sting of a dagger penetrate his side under his sword arm, and the top fastening of his chest plate came undone. She yanked her dagger out, and he dropped his sword. His side grew wet with blood. Harland grunted from the pain, and shoved her off him. He got up on his knees, and pulled himself off the ground to look at the Mayor. The old man was just standing there, smoking his pipe and watching the fight like it was a play.

“Maker’s soiled socks man, go get help!” Harland growled at him, and went to grab his weapon.

“Oh, right.” Mayor Mayer took a heavy drag of smoke, and quickly waddled off, hopefully to fetch the archers on the wall.

 

The mage kicked at the back of Harland’s knees, and he found himself on the ground again. He had his sword back though, albeit with his non-dominant hand, and swirled around to swipe the blade it at her leg. She quickly jumped out of the way, but he managed to slice her thigh. She cried out, and instinctively grabbed at it, hopping on one foot backwards, until once again falling over.

“The boat!” the curly haired one called. Harland looked at her, and saw her pointing to the Mayor’s row boat tied to the dock behind the shed. The wounded mage began crawling towards it, but Harland kicked her in the side. She let out a wheezing cough, and he was about to kick her again, when he instinctively ducked, narrowly missing the other elf’s attack. He tried to back up into her, but she too side-stepped him, dragging her dagger across his unprotected sleeve as she went. She tried to bury her second dagger into his neck, but hit his chest plate instead. He took the opportunity to swing his sword up, ripping clean into her leather jacket, but missing her body. He swung back down, but the elf caught it in her crossed daggers, and they stared deep into each other’s eyes. The amount of focus Harland saw in hers was almost intimidating. She was a good fighter for an elf, he’d give her that.

It was the best time Harland had in a while, and couldn’t help but laugh. He in fact was so caught up in amusement that he failed to notice the mage had successfully crawled her way to the boat, until she called to the rogue elf.

“Briala!” The mage wailed, and Harland turned his head. As he did, the rogue suddenly bent down low, and grabbed a clump of cold dirt in her hand. She threw it in the Templar’s face; it went up his nose and down his throat, and he was momentarily blinded. The elf, _Briala_ , ran for the boat herself.

 

In one swift movement, Briala cut the rope tying off the boat and dove into it, her momentum pushing it away from the water edge. The Dalish flashed Harland an obscene gesture before the two began to paddle away, fighting the current the whole time.

By the time the Mayor returned with the archers, they were halfway across the large river. The “archers” nearly emptied their quivers firing shots at them, but only a few even hit the boat. Harland resisted the urge to slap his face at these clearly untrained militia men. _One_ of them must have met their mark, for one of the women at one point shrieked. But the two had successfully made it across. The Templar felt rather useless and defeated, watching the figures lean on each other and hobble up the mountainside, past the waterfall, and out of sight.

 

The archers congregated, and headed back to their posts on the wall, leaving Mayor Mayer and Ser Harland alone by the water. The Templar began brushing the dirt out of his short blonde hair.

The Mayor looked at Harland with a frown. “Why didn’t you go after them?”

“What, _swim_? In the freezing cold water? With my armour on?”

“I suppose that would have been difficult.”

“You _suppose_.” Harland crossed his arms.

“Well, what am I paying you for, then? What are Templars good for, if not tracking mages?”

Harland raised his eyebrows in realization, and looked down at his blade. The metal was stained red with the mage’s blood. It was a stretch; typically blood was to be taken directly from the mage, for the strongest tether, but this was probably enough. “I need a circle mage, and a glass vial. It seems we’ll find that Dalish camp yet.”

 

* * *

 

Ethena’s arm was draped over Briala’s shoulder, and she held her’s under the other woman’s armpit. Briala tried for the waist, but it only resulted in a cry of pain from where the Templar kicked her. The make-do bandage tied around her thigh must have bled through, for the red stain was slowly spreading again. But it was the other leg that was causing her more pain. When she fell, she must have twisted her ankle. Briala herself had an arrow wound in the shoulder blade, which grew when she brashly pulled it out. She asked if Ethena could heal them, but the mage just laughed and said she was a hunter, not a healer. It was their topic of discussion while the two very slowly continued in the direction Ethena led them. The Dalish elf was surprisingly open to conversation; Briala assumed Ethena welcomed the distraction as much as she did herself.

“So you’re a hunter, who just happens to be a mage?” Briala asked.

“Yes.” Her response was a bit muffled from her hand covering the reopened scar on her lip. She switched from holding it there to hugging her chest.

“That doesn’t make any sense. If you have magic, why aren’t you a Keeper?”

“Our clan always—well, _usually_ always has a Keeper, First, and Second. But not all mages want to be that. I just wanted to keep, _ahhh_ , hunting.” She gasped between her words when her foot dragged under unsteady ground. Briala tried to prop her up even more, but it was difficult when she was quite a bit shorter than the other woman. “Besides, I’m a pretty shitty mage. My magic didn’t even manifest until I was near adulthood. I’m afraid you saw just about all I’m capable of back there. Or you would have, if not for that _fucking Templar_.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that, to be honest.” Briala couldn’t understand how nonchalant Ethena was about it. As if summoning some kind of spirit bow was ‘being a shitty mage.’ Her mind raced in a thousand directions in how useful that could be.

“I’m not surprised, the way your Circles treat magic like a curse, rather than a gift from the Creators.”

“Are you the only one? I mean, does your clan have more who can do that?”

“Create spirit weapons? The way is called the _Dirth'ena Enasalin_ , or Arcane Enchanter, if you prefer. And yes, there are a few…” Her expression rapidly fell into a state of despondency. Her next words were very slow. “There were more. But they’re gone…”

Briala looked ahead, a little uneasy. “Your camp. Are we getting close?” But Ethena didn’t answer. Briala looked over and saw her eyes lose focus, before she felt the other elf slump down. Briala cursed and tried to catch her head from hitting the ground hard. Ethena was out cold, but when Briala put her head to the woman’s chest, she could still hear her heartbeat. She was unconscious, but alive and breathing.

 

Briala looked up. Ethena had said her clan was camped along the river, deep into the forest. She refused to elaborate beyond that, and it left Briala without any option but to keep following the water. She pushed the unconscious Ethena onto her back, and then pulled her onto her feet. She quickly spun around so that her body was leaning on Briala’s back, and pulled Ethena’s arms onto her shoulders. She then started moving forward, dragging Ethena like a human backpack. It didn’t work out so well. After just a few minutes, Briala was ready to fall herself, and had to quickly drop the woman as gently as she could, panting from the strain. Carrying her was just not an option.

“Sorry about this,” Briala said to her unconscious ally, before grabbing the hood of her coat and simply began dragging her body over the bumpy, uneven ground. At least she wasn’t awake to feel how much that must’ve hurt. Although considering the other option was to just leave her to die, there wasn’t much choice.

 

Briala found herself having to repeatedly take breaks due to her shoulder, and her back starting to hurt from having to say bent over. Thankfully, sticking to the river meant she also had fresh water to drink from, cold as it was to cup in her hands. Briala tried rubbing the cold water over Ethena’s face a few times. She even dangled her arms over a fallen log above the water, wondering if the current running through her fingers would do any good. But it did nothing to stir her.

It was a slow moving walk. She didn’t want to move too fast anyway, in fear of ripping up the woman’s coat. It proved to be very durable, though. While catching her breath and resting her body for a few minutes, she turned Ethena over to check her backside for any tears in the leather. There were none to be seen, aside from the sliced piece on her thigh that did seem to rip further. Briala wondered what kind of hide it was made of; she’d guess druffalo from the strength, but found that very unlikely. It also didn’t match up with the dark grey colour.

 

Like so many of her questions, she regretted finding an answer.

Briala tensed when she heard strange, unfamiliar grunting and panting noises coming from somewhere. She stayed absolutely still, other than swiveling her head around, trying to find the source of the noise. Whatever was coming was nowhere in view, but certainly sounded big. And threatening.

The only protection was up in the trees, but she had no way of possibly carrying Ethena up there. Just when the grunts and pants started getting louder, she remembered the half of the robe she kept in her bag. Briala dug it out, and tied it around Ethena’s arms. She then threw the other end of the rope over a sturdy looking, high hanging branch on the closest tree, and pulled with all her strength, lifting the woman off the ground.

The grunts and pants changed into a haunting moan, and Briala very slowly twisted around. She had fought undead warriors, a varterral, and her own nightmares countless times, but nothing was as heart stopping as the sight of the most unimaginably giant bear, defensively staring her down from in the distance across the river.

Briala ran around the base of the tree and tied the rope off as she heard the bear hit the water. The creature was so large, its belly just scraped the surface. Briala jumped as high as she could and hugged the tree tightly. The bark was thankfully very old and knotted, giving her a better grip as she shimmied up the trunk. The bear’s wild moans and now growls grew deafeningly loud. Swifter than one would think, it lumbered out of the water and slammed itself into the tree, just as Briala pulled herself up onto a branch of her own. The leaves and branches quaked, and Briala wrapped herself onto it, hanging onto dear life.

She looked over at the dangling Ethena, who seemed to have caught the bear’s attention. It stood up on its back legs as a human would, and swiped at her, its paw only just missing her feet. The bear grunted and tried again, this time its claws catching her fur boot and pulling it off. She swung back and forth, but didn’t wake. The bear was sticking its nose down her fallen boot, snorting and bumbling around.

 

Briala wasn’t sure what to do. Perhaps if they waited long enough, it would move on. But what if Ethena bled out before that? She would prefer that didn’t happen. And so the already wounded elf unsheathed her daggers, and jumped out of the tree onto the bear’s back with a scream. The daggers plunged into its neck, and the bear wailed and stood back up on its two legs. Its dark grey hide was so thick and the daggers so stuck, that they kept Briala from falling off. She wrapped her legs around its waist, and felt her whole skeleton shake when the bear came back down on all fours. Briala then pulled her right dagger out with all her might, and it came free. She tried driving it back in, but it would not penetrate all the way without the force of falling helping her.

The bear, still growling, tried to shake her off. Her other dagger came loose, and Briala found herself flung into the trunk of the tree. The bear wasted no time in charging at her. She narrowly missed its gnashing teeth by ducking out of the way, but when she turned to run and lead the bear away, its claws slashed across her back, and Briala fell in excruciating pain. She was pretty sure she was screaming, but it was hard to tell over the roars coming from the bear.

 

She had failed. And now she was going to die, as would Ethena and her clan.

But her daggers. She could feel them still in her hand.

Briala prepared to attempt one final swing at the bear when it went to break her beneath its paw, when a sudden arrow went right through the bear’s left eye. It let out half a cry before two more arrows came, one in the other eye and another down its mouth. The bear went silent and fell down just short of Briala’s feet.

 

Briala tried to get up, but couldn’t. She tiled her head back as far as it would go, and saw two figures standing across the river. They lowered their bows and crossed over the fallen log. As they got closer, she was able to see they were both elves, sporting similar gear to Ethena’s, and had brightly coloured tattoos covering their faces.

“For what it’s worth, nice try,” one of them said with a burly voice.

“You're Dalish. We need… to talk. But I think I’m going to pass out,” Briala told them, before promptly losing consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original draft of this chapter, the second part was in Ethena's point of view, and it was Briala who fell unconscious. However, reading it over I realized I had an opportunity to completely switch what would be a rough equivalent of the ''mystical native' bringing the fallen hero to safety' trope. And so I completely rewrote the second part so that it was Briala who carried (dragged) Ethena to safety. Or at least tried to do so.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back in Val Royeaux...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to be after the next chapter, but I think it fits better here. 
> 
> Don't worry:  
> 

All the best and most famous bards had an alias. Aurélie did once, until it became real.

Aurélie. The name given to her by her bardmaster at the tender age of eight. The woman who saw a young orphan girl with bright strawberry blonde hair singing on the streets for coin, and knew what a profit she could make. Aurélie wondered how proud her master would have been, to see her sleeping in the same bed as the Empress of Orlais, had she not killed her several years prior.

 

She had succeeded where so many failed. But only because they made the mistake of believing the Empress’ guise of ignorance. They all thought they could manipulate her. Aurélie knew better. From the moment she first met Celene Valmont at one of many palace banquets, and witnessed her outplay the Grand Duke in his pitiful attempt to start a fight. And while everyone else was paying attention to her words, Aurélie had watched her eyes. They were the kind of eyes that knew from before the scene even began how to win. The kind of eyes only one trained as a bard carried.

And so Aurélie approached her with the respect one bard gave to another. _And_ with the feathers of several of Gaspard’s Chevaliers meant to infiltrate the Winter Palace on that fateful night of “truce.” It was difficult, but she was a bard. Her morals were for sale.

So began their work relationship.

The sex came later.

 

Aurélie pulled herself into sitting against the pile of assorted pillows at the head of the massive bed, and stretched. She looked up at the canopy hanging above her, and then over to Celene, who was still asleep and snoring softly. It was still strange, seeing her like that; without a mask, makeup, elaborate hair, and even more elaborate gown. Somehow she looked younger without it all. Like the 38-year-old woman she was, instead of some decrepit old lady. Aurélie wondered about their age difference, at times. The Empress was seven years her senior, but she supposed that was _nothing_ in the eyes of Orlesian nobles. Andraste’s ass, there were certainly enough men out there with a collection of mistresses young enough to be their _daughters_ …

 

Aurélie shuffled out of the bed as indiscreetly as possible so not to disturb the sleeping Empress, and picked her clothes up off the floor. She was too lazy to put them all back on, and slid the mirror away to open the familiar secret passageway. Just as she closed it behind her, she heard Celene’s servants open her doors with their trolley of morning tea and biscuits.

Aurélie longed for the days to come when she didn’t have to vacate as soon as the sun came. She wanted to spend the morning with Celene, complaining about this lord and that. But while Celene took great precaution in hiring staff, there was no way to be 100% certain where their loyalties lie. Heck, Aurélie herself was no better example. Aurélie was a bard. Aurélie’s morals were for sale.

 

She slipped into the abandoned room where she had started keeping a few pairs of clothes to change into, stuffed under the mattress. Aurélie put on a simple green cotton dress with silk edges down a somewhat low collar—something she knew her next proprietor liked. It hung down to the floor, which was good for covering her leather boots and the three different daggers stashed on them. She opened the top of the decorative box on the dresser and grabbed a handful of Crowns to add to her pocket. The last thing she grabbed was a small, gold and green mask to tuck down her chest. She then wasted no time in throwing herself out the window with a huge leap, and just barely caught the tree nearby. Celene swore to her a day would come she’d miss that tree, but it hadn’t happened yet.

Aurélie nimbly made her way down into the large garden, where she could then blend in well as just another servant until making her way out of the palace and into the streets of Val Royeaux. It was only there that she dared to don her mask with the colours of House Chalons.

 

It was hard to imagine how anyone got any sleep in the city. The streets were almost as busy at the early hours in the morning as they were midday. Aurélie stuck near edges of the Miroir de la Mère to avoid most of the bustle, and even still was almost run over by a crew wheeling a large barrel of fish across her path, while a battered looking girl waddled after them, with wandering fingers Aurélie would’ve spotted from a mile away. But the men didn’t notice, and she wasn’t going to give the poor girl up. For a brief moment, she almost reached out to help the child. Had her life gone differently, she might have been that girl. But she was not. She was a bard. Her morals were for sale. So she pretended to be preoccupied with the clear blue skies above.

 

Aurélie didn’t bother to stop back at her apartment before her scheduled early morning check-in. Instead she went to the Summer Bazaar, at their arranged meeting spot. Her client would of course be fashionably late, giving her plenty of time to pick at the appetizers in solitude. Something about watching that hungry girl made her especially hungry herself.

 

Le Masque du Lion Café was already full of guests, their babble clouding the air. It was what made the café such a good place to meet; to any onlooker, she and her patron would be no different than any other couple enjoying brunch. And eavesdroppers would have trouble overhearing them amid the ceaseless chatter and music. (Not to mention their frilly cakes were to die for.)

The attendee recognized her immediately, and led her to a two-seated table off to the side, tucked along the wall lined with red, silk drapes. Aurélie had to resist the urge to rub her hands down them. The wine helped, but maker, she really had to quit the white stuff. A true shame such a good taste produced the worst kind of heartburn for her.

 

Aurélie was just about finished with the biscuit dish when Gaspard de Chalons finally took a seat across from her, with an armoured and armed guard standing behind him. And like always, meeting with him was an immediate reminder that she was _most definitely_ a lesbian… Aurélie opened her mouth to begin speaking, but he interrupted her with his pointer finger, poured himself a glass, and downed the whole thing. He then began their talk himself as he poured another.

“It is good to see you, my dear friend. The fact that you’re here again this morning tells me the Empress has yet to catch on?” He mused.

Aurélie nodded. “I have to wonder if perhaps her keen senses are slipping. She just seems so tired all the time.”

“Of course she’s tired. The woman has no stamina at her age.” Some moments were harder to hide smiles than others. Aurélie had to fight her own face to keep from laughing at a man thirty years Celene’s senior saying such a thing. He took another sip of wine, as a waitress brought them each a dish of freshly cooked eggs and muffins. The two continued talking between bites.

“The message to the Inquisitor. You sent the revised copy, yes?”

Oh, it was revised alright. “Yes, Your Highness. The papers you gave me were of excellent quality to copy from. I daresay the dwarven ambassador herself would have a hard time arguing she didn’t write it,” Aurélie batted her eyelashes with pride. Shooting a bow, wielding a knife, sneaking around in dark hallways, those were things any bard could master. But Aurélie took great delight in her much more unique expertise. “The Inquisition should hear word of Marquise Briala’s treachery within the week.”

“ _Don’t_ use that title for that knife-eared bitch,” Gaspard chided, slamming his fork down on his plate with a clink. From the corner of her eye, Aurélie looked to see if he drew any attention, but the others in the café seemed to all be preoccupied with something else. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t grow more tired of her and her so-called _uprising_. Where I on the throne, I’d have her head mounted outside the palace by now.” He relaxed his shoulders slowly, and loosened his grip on the fork, letting it slide out of hand. “ _Uprising_ ,” he chortled, “They’re a menace, is what they are.”

“I suppose one man’s menace is another man’s freedom fighter,” Aurélie attempted to say lightly, but was only met with a deepening frown. She really was not sure how to handle the Grand Duke in such a sudden fit, and wondered what the elves must have done to him personally. She assumed it was something, and something recent. His ranting was too high strung for it not to be.

“You would do well not to sympathize with them, my friend.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly, sensing the conversation was turning for the worse. But he did not buy her response. “Well, perhaps I do a little. Though you must not mistake me, Your Highness; I am a bard. I was trained not to have feelings.” She was a bard. Her morals were for sale. She repeated the words in her head. But… “But… I cannot help but wonder sometimes, if they were treated better, if they wouldn’t—“

“Do you feel sorry for a rabbit before it is killed?” He asked her.

“They’re not rabbits.”

 

Gaspard did not respond. Instead, he seemed to be fixated on something past Aurélie’s shoulder. She turned around and saw what the other patrons were distracted with, and rose from her seat to join the gathering crowd outside the café, feeling Gaspard trail behind her. The crowd all looked up at the top of the giant bell tower. From such a distance it was hard to make out just what was going on, but there seemed to be some sort of contraption, and a number of people hurrying about around it. A small catapult?

A round of gasps went through the growing number of people. Whoever was up there was most certainly not supposed to be. Everyone in Val Royeaux knew that overly ornate bell was bestowed by Divine Beatrix II, taken from the Grand Cathedral when the Divine commissioned a new one. More than that, _how_ did they get up there? Aurélie supposed it was climbable, but to also drag a catapult up there… Unless it was somehow magically teleported, they would have had to drag it up piece by piece, and assemble it atop the tower, all while not being seen until now. It wasn’t adding up.

And without warning, the catapult fired. A number of flaming objects rained down on the citizens now all out in the middle of the Bazaar. The people screamed and scattered, one man pushing Aurélie to the ground to run for cover back under the Café.

A second round fired off, and one nearly missed Aurélie’s head. She quickly got to her feet and stomped down on the object, killing the fire. When she took her foot away, she was confused to see it was a book. The cover was badly burned, and barely legible. But the stamp marking it property of the University of Orlais was visible, and with a close look in her hands, she was able to decipher some of the cover.

“Elven Physiology: _Something, something, something,_ Intelligence,” she read out loud, as another rain of books came down on them. Most of the Bazaar streets were clear, now. Aurélie heard the clanking of metal, and soon enough guards were pouring into sight. She looked up at Gaspard, who was staring at her with a smug, hawkish grin.

“Perhaps you’re right, my friend. Perhaps they are more akin to _rats_ than rabbits. Now, where were we?”

 

* * *

 

Celene laid in Aurélie’s lap while the younger woman stroked her hair, and gave her recap of the meeting she had with Gaspard that day. She found it harder to concentrate than usual, and her eyes desperately wanted to close. Aurélie was telling her nothing new. He had asked the bard to alter the Inquisition representative’s report dictating their agreement to instead say that Briala was acting against them and that she needed to be taken care of. And Aurélie altered the documents, alright. Just not the way he believed. Instead, it would appear Ambassador Zerlinda sent a warning to the Inquisition that Gaspard had planned to restart his assault on the Dales, thus breaking their truce. And when his army will finally leave, Celene will of course have no choice but to rebrand him a traitor to the Empire, and put him down. A trick so simple, yet so clever. Truly one from his own books. Double agents certainly were a high risk, high reward. But when Aurélie leaned down to plant a kiss on Celene’s forehead, the Empress concluded the reward was worth it.

“You’re tired tonight,” Aurélie whispered.

“It was a longer day than usual,” said Celene. The University of Orlais had finally implicated their mass expulsion of elven students that morning. Nobles who had sponsored elves wanted compensation, and the chancelier had instructed them to take it up with the crown. She sighed. “The repercussions of the University’s decision to get rid of the elven students—“

“Wait, what?" Aurélie interrupted her, pulling herself up from under Celene. “Why? What of all the work you’ve done?”

“And what did that work accomplish, Aurélie?” Celene shook her head. “I have given and given, and still it was not enough. The elves were never going to be satisfied.” Briala was never going to be satisfied.

Aurélie was silent for a moment, before leaning over to the bedside table where her bag sat. She pulled a blackened book out and handed it to Celene. “This morning a group of ruffians catapulted what must have been at least a hundred books all like this one, off the Summer Bazaar bell tower. How, I have no idea. But I suppose it makes sense now.” Celene cracked open the charred book, and started flipping through the pages. The edges were badly burned away, some more than others. But it was still easy to see most of the book was full of diagrams of the elven body, in comparison to different animals. “Do you see this trash?” Celene was a tad surprised to hear actual anger in Aurélie’s voice. She was usually so careful not to show much of any emotion, save for intimate times. (And how rewarding it was when Celene was able to make her slip.) “The fact that this book was in a school in the first place… It’s ridiculous! It claims the shape of one’s nose determines one’s intelligence. If that was true, I’d be no smarter than a nug.”

“You do have a very elvish nose,” Celene noted. Aurélie’s face hardened, and Celene mentally scolded herself. “I’m sorry, Aurélie. You know I love your nose.” Celene closed the book and set it aside. Aurélie’s expression softened, but her eyes remained sharp, and somewhat hurt. It was a look Celene was very familiar with, of course. Briala gave it to her quite often. She never expected it to come from a human like herself. “I love your nose,” she repeated, and leaned closer. “I love your eyes. I love your cheeks. I love your lips…” Celene planted a soft kiss with each sentence, ending with a lengthy one. Aurélie relented, and let the Empress’s mouth form around her own. She broke off with a deep breath, and pulled Celene into another. Celene slowly moved her hand up from Aurélie’s knee to her thigh, then up along her waist. The other woman folded her arms over Celene’s shoulders, and then slid them down her arms, tugging at Celene’s nightgown. But when Celene moved to unbutton herself, Aurélie backed away, and cupped the Empress’ hands, stilling them.

 

“Mary me,” Aurélie said, and even smiled with it.

Celene was stunned. She recalled the last time she received a spontaneous proposal, Gaspard’s face in her mind, spoiling the mood. “You know we can’t.”

“Why not?” Aurélie said. “We could be married at the Grand Cathedral. And the Divine herself could do it. You know she would; she married herself to an elven mage, for Maker’s sake. Just imagine it: Beautiful silk gowns, purple with gold and white trim, white lilies and violets draped everywhere… We could even weave some into our hair.” Celene could picture it. Of course it would be expected to be a big event; they would have to invite every noble house in Orlais. Yes, the Grand Cathedral would simply be a necessity to host all the guests. And perhaps afterwards, some time at her cottage in the Heartlands, away from everything.

But no. No, that would simply be impossible. “Someday, my love,” Celene assured her, “But not while Gaspard and Briala continue to nip at my heels.”

Aurélie looked down in thought. “But you would, once the Grand Duke and Marquise are dealt with?”

“Yes.”

Celene watched the gears turn in Aurélie’s head, before the woman reached for her bag once more, this time retrieving a rolled up piece of paper. Celene took it from her and gently cracked open the imperial seal.

“…This is the doctrine I wrote for Briala,” said Celene, now confused. Aurélie nodded.

“I replaced it with nonsense. She is likely already apprehended by now.”

Celene crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room in shock and anger, causing Aurélie to jump back in surprise. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“…I did it for _you_! You _just_ said she’s nipping at your heels! This way she’ll simply fade out of relevance. Would you rather a public execution in front of the palace?”

“No! I just…” Celene clenched her fists. “You know about my past with Bria… with _Briala_. I suppose a part of me still hoped…” She shook her head, and clenched her jaw. Aurélie was right. Even if Briala would have returned to her, she no longer had need of her. Not with Aurélie now. “No. You’re right. Perhaps it is better this way.”

Celene’s bard slowly moved back in close to her, and cupped her face in comfort. Celene leaned into her hand and closed her eyes. “I must ask though, my love; did you not just express your sympathy for the elves? And yet, you would do this for me?”

Aurélie refused to meet her eyes, instead staring down at the silk sheets below them. With a weak smile, she answered. “I am a bard. My morals are for sale.”


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Briala wakes up at Clan Aradin's camp, now without a plan.

Briala very slowly lulled out of unconsciousness to the smell of various herbs, the feel of soft fur against her skin, and the sound of rain. Her eyes fluttered open in a state of confusion, and instinctively tried to reach for a weapon that was not under her pillow, for she was not in her bed. She was in a dome shaped structure, probably about eight meters in width and height, with skin and bark stretched over a wooden frame, and a small doorway covered with a fur flap. The cot she was lying stomach down on was lined up next to two others, one equally small, and one larger, looking to be fit for two people. There was also what looked to be a child’s bed, at the foot of the one next to her. There were several barrels along the wall, including a large one with a tap you’d expect to see in a tavern. Next to her was a table with herbs scattered about, and sitting over the table was the figure of a young teen with a long, black braid, working furiously on grounding some of the plants up in a bowl. When Briala shuffled into a sitting position, looking at all this around her, the kid dropped the grinding tools and nearly fell over, seeing her awake. Briala grabbed the blanket beneath her and covered her topless self.

 

“Oh, _thank you_ ,” he said. “Thank Sylaise. Thank _whoever_!” Briala began to cough, and the teen jumped back up. “Hold on, hold on, hold on, I have something for that.” He practically flew out the exit, leaving Briala alone and still very much confused. It was just then that she fully realized she must have been at the Dalish camp. She reached to scratch at her back, and felt a slippery, slightly sticky goo.

 

The boy returned, and held out a small cup of tea. “Here,” he said. She accepted his drink, still clutching the blanket to her front with her other arm.

“What’s in it? And what’s on my back?” She asked, her voice as dry as how her mouth felt. “And how long was I out for?”

“The tea has Embrium, and I covered your back with resin from the spruce tree, juices from the elfroot, and oil from the eel.” Briala began to sip. “And you’ve been out for three days, now. Well, you were briefly semi-conscious at one point, terrified the entire camp, too, but I’m guessing you don’t remember that?”

“No,” she shook her head. “What did I do to scare you?”

The boy looked away. “You were shrieking at the top of your lungs, ‘Fen’Harel enansal.’ Some said the Dread Wolf sent you to finally do us all in,” he laughed, but there was nothing light about it. Then he waved it off, changing the subject. “I just… I can’t believe you’re awake. You have no idea… You have no idea how good it is to finally save someone.”

Right, the red lyrium. “Ethena told me your people are sick,” she said, gaining strength in her speech. “Ethena—Where is she?”

“Eth’s fine. She would be _better_ if she would rest like I _told_ her to,” the boy grunted, “She woke up a few hours after the hunters found you. The two of you really took a beating, huh? Turn around.”

“You’re a healer, then? Aren’t you a little young? Where’s your Keeper?”

“I _am_ the Keeper. Keeper Hanin.”

“But you’re—“

“I’ll be seventeen in a few months, alright?” He cut her off, and furrowed his brows. “And I’m ready for my vallaslin now, but the Hahrens don’t think so. And need I remind you I saved your life?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now really, turn around.”

 

Hanin made the motion for Briala to spin with his finger, and she did so, still sipping on her tea. “This looks like someone’s home,” she observed.

“Our med tents are full of those infected with the red lyrium. We couldn’t risk putting you in with them, so Hahren Nahum said you could stay here, as thanks for saving his daughter. Now, I have to replace the resin on your back, but I’m gonna numb your skin first, okay? This’ll be cold…” Before he even finished speaking, Briala felt like someone had poured ice water down her back. The feeling of the boy’s hands on her skin soon faded to just a dull sensation. “You’re lucky you were wearing armour, you know. Otherwise these would be a lot deeper. Not a lot of people can say they’ve taken a hit from a great bear and lived.”

“Your hunters seemed to know what they were doing.”

“I’d hope so, considering we’ve been co-existing with them since pretty much forever. At least, so the stories say.”

Briala looked down at the cloth he used to wipe at her wounds. It was slightly tinted red with her blood. She tried to reach at her bare gashes, but Hanin slapped her hand away. “You scratch those scabs, and I’ll have to start all over again.”

“So they’ll scar, then?”

“I closed the wounds with magic and sped up the healing process, but yes, they’ll still scar.” The boy began gently rubbing the new resin and oil concoction over the long gashes. “I also took care of the arrow wound in your shoulder; that was an easy one. Very clean. But if I can just ask… What the fuck were those claw and puncture marks on your wrist from?”

“An undead skeleton.”

_“…What?_ ” Briala was trying to think of how she could explain, but Hanin kept talking before she could. “You know what, as interesting as that sounds, I really don’t have time to care. They’re fine now, and I have to get back to the med tent, or people will start to wake up soon.” When he was done plastering more resin to her, Briala turned around and saw up close just how tired the boy looked. He pulled his braid over his shoulder and began absently rubbing the end of it with his fingers. “I can’t save them. I’ve tried _everything_. Maybe Keeper Vuninlen could, but I can’t. They might as well already be dead. The least we can do is keep them in an entropic sleep for it.”

“Hey,” Briala said, “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to stop this.” Of course, as she said it, she realized she no longer had a plan in place, what with Celene’s apparent lack of intention to ever see her come home.

Hanin rolled his eyes, clearly not believing her, but said nothing of it. He just collected the discarded cloth to throw in a waste bin, and went over to a barrel of what Briala thought was ale, except when he turned the tap, water poured out. After rinsing off his hands, he finally addressed her again. “Ethena told us you’re from Halamshiral, and that you’re trying to stop some kind of attack on the clan. To be honest, I’m not sure if it’d just be best to let them come kill what’s left of us, but whatever.” He pointed to a group of lidded barrels against the wall. “Your belongings are in the first barrel there, save for your weapons. No offence, but we’ll be holding onto them for a while.” Briala went over to collect her things. “You should speak with Hahren Ghilina when you’re ready. She’s probably still by the main fire pit.” Then the boy grabbed his grinding tools and basket of elfroot, and left.

 

Briala stood there for a few moments, steadying her breath. She looked over at the table full of herbs and berries. She hoped it was okay to grab a handful of the blue ones, because by the Dread Wolf, they were juicy.

While her armour was shredded in the back, it seemed someone sewed up the slashes in her shirt. She dressed herself slowly, her mind half-present, and half into the future, wondering just what she would do now. If the Dalish were capable or willing to leave the Emprise, they would have done so by now, which meant obviously something was keeping them here. Whatever it was, it meant running was out of the question. Even if the clan was at full healthy numbers, they wouldn’t stand a chance against a full-on fight against Gaspard’s army, especially not without any defence.

_Defence_. That’s what they needed. Enough defence to buy time to come up with something long-term.

 

Briala re-focused herself, and slipped out.

The rain was steady, but not heavy; more like a gentle, misty shower that tinted everything grey. Even the red fabric on the aravels hung heavy with a dullness to them Briala couldn’t place as natural. The aravels were quite a sight; there were many more of them than those she saw from her encounter with Clan Virnehn, and they were all arranged in a circle around the camp. They were of all shapes and sizes, some small enough to just barely pass as wagons, and others large enough to look inhabitable. A few clearly _were_ , lacking sails and instead looking more like tiny houses on wheels, with beautiful decorative carvings and paint.

Dispersed around the camp were a dozen hut-like structures, just like the one she emerged from. Briala guessed this was a semi-permanent site, then, with the ability to take the coverings off the frames and leave, and come back and set up later. If each shelter had about the same amount of beds as what she saw, then Briala could estimate the clan’s numbers at as many as fifty; very large for what she understood as the normal Dalish clan size.

Despite this estimate though, there were very few elves to be seen. Just outside the aravel parameter, a small group of young elves and one adult were shooting arrows at woven targets hanging in the trees. At the centre of the site was a large fire pit, and off to the side a tent and table where three women were busy preparing a meal. Two men were carrying baskets from one tent to another. At first Briala assumed that most must have just been hidden inside from the rain, before realizing it was far more likely their numbers had been cut down, with a large number all housed in the very large tent off to the side. Unlike the other shelters, this one was clearly impromptu. It looked to be made of nothing but four poles in the ground, and several large tarps sewn together to form a covering. Briala guessed that must have been the ‘med tent’ Hanin mentioned.

 

The camp itself was tucked between the large river and a gap in the treeline. A beautifully carved bridge loomed over the river, with a statue of a burly looking elf on the other side, with a mallet in hand. _June_ , Briala guessed. She curiously found herself walking towards it instead of the fire pit as Hanin suggested. But as she approached it, she noticed Ethena sitting alone on the bank of the river, staring intensely at the water.

Briala quietly went over to the other woman and sat down next to her. The wet grass instantly dampened her trousers, but if the other elf didn’t mind, Briala wasn’t going to say anything either. She looked at Ethena, who didn’t make any acknowledgement that she even sat down. Her hair was no longer dirty (albeit soggy from the rain,) her face was no longer beaten, and the scar on her lip was closed. And yet the woman still looked as if she was in pain.

 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Briala said, not sure what else to greet with.

Without so much as looking up, Ethena answered with, “I suppose.” After a moment, she quickly added, “I’m sorry. _Thank you_ , is what I meant to say.”

“You’re welcome.” After another moment, “Aren’t you concerned with getting wet?”

“I like the rain,” she answered, in a monotone voice. “It’s the only time you can cry, and no one has to know.” Briala really wasn’t sure how to answer. She couldn’t help but find herself looking closely at Ethena’s eyes, specifically the wet build up around them. When Ethena noticed this, she quickly spun her head to look directly at her. “Look, Briala, I’d really rather just be alone right now. We can talk later, okay?”

Briala nodded, and got up, feeling a little embarrassed. Embarrassed, and awkward. This was not the same talkative, half-dead woman she dragged through the Emprise a few days before.

 

Briala went back to the centre of the camp, and up to the three women preparing a meal. The two middle-aged women could have passed as mirror images, with the same round face, the same tree vallaslin, and the same short, dark curly hair. One was busy plucking fish out of a large basket, trimming the fins and skinning the creatures with amazing speed. The other was gutting the fish and cutting it up into chunks. The elderly woman at the end of the table was seated on a wooden stool, with her beautifully patterned long skirt flowing around the grass tips. She was skewering the chunks of meat on sticks and stacking them up. A pair of halla horns were tattooed over her brow and beneath her long grey locks. The ink was heavily faded with age; what was once clearly a bright red, was now more of a burnt brown on her sandy skin.

When she approached the group, the eldest gave her a warm smile, and beckoned her to come closer.

“Ethena didn’t tell us you had so many freckles,” the woman cutting said. Briala would have thought it was an insult, if she didn’t say it with such mesmerisation.

“And that’s a problem?” She asked, all the same, puckering her lips.

“Oh no,” the woman quickly shook her head, “It means you’ve been kissed by Elgar’nan. A very good blessing.”

“You know,” the other woman began, “My son is about your age. He’s a very good hunter, very strong, and very polite. He’s not sick, either.”

“I-I, uh,” Briala was taken back, “He sounds wonderful, but not my type. I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh,” she said. “…I have a daughter too, you know. A little younger, and she’s in the med tent, but she could recover yet, I know she will.”

“You leave the poor girl alone,” The elderly woman mumbled with a chuckle. Briala smiled, a tad uncomfortable, but the other three women didn’t seem to think anything of it. The elder grabbed a bundle of sticks and dropped them into Briala’s arms. “Why don’t you give us a hand, since Ethena is in one of her bouts?”

Briala quickly moved over to stand next to the woman cutting up the pieces, and began mimicking the elderly lady in putting them onto the sticks. “I tried to speak with her. She seemed… unwell.”

“Sometimes she goes through spells of great sadness. She’s been that way since she was a child.” The woman at the end answered.

“And you don’t worry about her?”

“Of course we do! Especially her father, I swear that man thinks she’s still twelve years old sometimes…” The woman shook her head, “But she will be fine. She’s been like that since she woke up, and we’re all sure she’ll come out of it soon. At least, we hope so. There’s a sick little boy waiting for his aunt to visit him,” she gave a half smile.

 

“So,” said the elderly woman, “I told Hanin to send you to me when you woke up. Such a good boy.”

“You’re Hahren Ghilina, then?”

She nodded. “And you’re _Briala_. From the far away _Halamshiral_.”

“So you know where I’m from, then. Do you know why I’m here?”

“You’re here because the humans want to kill us,” the propositioning mother said.

The other one followed up. “I suppose they’re unsatisfied that their red lyrium isn’t doing the job fast enough.”

“Port d'Argent and Sahrnia sent letters requesting help from the Inquisition, who gave the matter to the Empress to handle, saying your clan was attacking them for no reason. We had no idea about the lyrium, I swear to you as Marquise of the Dales.”

“Of course you didn’t. What human ever stops to care for our health, so long as it doesn’t affect them?” The second woman said bitterly, swinging her knife down just a tad bit harder. “Our clan has roamed this land since the Glory Age, long before any human settlements were even established. They know full well of our rotating camping sites. And now they are ruined!”

“The humans had no care in disposing of the red lyrium, left by the templars,” Ghilina explained more calmly. “And so, they dump it near our sites, where we camp. They dump it in the lakes, where we fish. And try as we did, we were unable to clean it completely.”

“So you retaliated,” Briala nodded, but Ghilina shook her head.

“No. We knew there was no hope in that. We knew the only thing to do would be to search for an untouched site, or find a new one. But there were some…” The old woman sighed. “Sometimes, Ethena has spells of thinking she is invincible, too. When young Sulan became ill, she and a few equally angered young ones led an attack on Sahrnia. And it seems all but Ethena paid the price for it.” Ghilina frowned. “We only learned of their previous attacks through Ethena’s admission. It saddens me to know we failed to notice. We were all too occupied with trying to find a cure.”

“There is no cure for red lyrium’s corruption,” Briala said gravely. Her agents in the Inquisition had much knowledge on the subject. “Prolonged exposure causes madness, pain, and eventually death.” She felt bad, dropping this harsh truth they no doubt already concluded themselves. From the way Hanin spoke, it seemed that most were far past hope of survival. But at the same time, she didn’t want to see them give up hope. “Although, I’ve heard of those with minimal exposure able to pull back from it, with time…”

This seemed to please the mother. “Yes, you see? My daughter, she never even ate the infected fish, just caught it. She’ll be fine. Yes, she will…” It seemed to be more an assurance for herself rather than the other women.

“She could,” Briala attempted a smile, before returning to the matter at hand. “But the bottom line is you never should have had to deal with this in the _first_ place. The humans need to answer for this crime. But first… First, we need to assure your clan’s safety. I know Ethena also told you of the incoming army. You need to leave this place, as soon as possible. Before you have their might on your tail.”

“This land is our home,” Ghilina insisted. “We will not leave the Emprise. This is our journey’s end.”

Briala tilted her head, recalling Ethena saying the exact same thing. She decided to tuck that away to ask about later. “I’m not suggesting you leave Emprise du Lion.” At this, she smiled. “I’m suggesting you find a place with better defence; one that the humans will not so easily attack. I’m suggesting we take back Suledin Keep.”


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Briala Meets The Parents, and explains her plan to retake Suledin Keep.  
> Ethena deals with a fuckboy and gets a bunny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the fact that this chapter is a little longer makes up for the wait?

 

As the sky dimmed the air grew colder. Before the rain sputtered out it transitioned into slush, something that amazed Briala, but the Dalish regarded as completely normal. They explained to her that long winters and short summers were typical for the highlands, and that it wouldn’t be until the start of summer before you could expect the snow to be completely gone… leaving just a few months until it would be back again.

Briala had found herself pacing impatiently by the river, watching said slush slowly fade. When she brought up the idea of taking back Suledin Keep, Hahren Ghilina quickly silenced her, saying no more should be said until after meal time, when all the clan well enough to gather would gather. Briala didn’t understand why she couldn’t have just spoken then. It would only be more difficult to explain with a larger audience, who would no doubt have questions, of which she’d prefer to answer as least as possible.

 

Her anxiety grew, watching the clan finally assemble around the giant central fire. She counted twenty-seven heads, including the children. Given her original estimate of fifty, she was left to assume there must have been almost just as many who were sick, or already dead. All the more reason for the _urgency_ the Dalish did not seem to _grasp_. But sure, she mused. Take your time choosing between stick with fish A, and stick with fish B.

 

“Briala,” she heard, and turned around to see Ethena approach. Her face, while still grim, was not nearly as desolate as what she had seen earlier in the day.

“Ethena,” Briala responded. After their earlier encounter, she was a little nervous to talk, but the other woman acted as if nothing had happened.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you, but my mother and step-father insist I introduce the woman who saved me,” she raised her hands with a shrug. “Do you know Silent Signs?”

“What?”

“It’s a language developed by the Durgen’len Silent Sisters, thus, you know, the name. Don’t worry, I’ll translate. How do you spell your name?”

“…B-R-I-A-L-A…?”

 

Briala looked behind Ethena and saw the couple approaching. It was easy to see right away that Ethena must have strongly taken after whoever her biological father was, as she looked next to nothing like her mother. In fact, the only thing they seemed to share physically was the shape of their faces. She had a closely shaved head with light brown hair, just a few shades darker than her skin that could have passed for a tan, were it not so even and natural looking. Holding her hand was a man who looked to be similar in age age—Briala guessed mid-fifties to early-sixties—with slicked back black hair, pale skin, and a very sharp looking face. And where she was so tall and he was so short, he only came up to about her shoulder-level.

The man immediately embraced his step-daughter in a hug, and the woman joined him in wrapping her arms around Ethena. Briala felt… a tad jealous. Seeing this made her wonder what it would have been like, had Celene not had her parents murdered. Would they hug her like that? Would they brush her hair out of her face like that? Would they be proud or angry with who she became?

 

When mulling over these thoughts, Briala was caught off-guard by Ethena’s step-father suddenly hugging _her_.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done, bringing our daughter back safe,” he said, his voice wet with joviality. “ _Elgar’nan enansal_.”

“Nahum, please…” Ethena said, shrinking her head down into her shoulders. Her step-father, Nahum, backed away and rejoined his wife, still smiling. Ethena huffed, and motioned to Briala before speaking. “Mother, Nahum, this is Briala. And yes, she saved me. From that templar… and supposedly a bear?” As Ethena spoke, she made rapid movements with her hand. Briala watched her go from holding her hand up as if to say stop, to crossing her fingers, to sticking up her pinky, to forming a fist, to making an L, and then a fist again in a matter of seconds. She then crossed her arms and extended her fingers, before dragging them apart again while forming fists. She pointed her thumb to her chest, before launching into another round of quick hand movements, and finished with crossing her arms over her chest again and imitating scratches.

In return, Ethena’s mother gazed at Briala with amazement in her eyes, touched her smiling lips in a way that looked a little like bowing a kiss, and moved into a few different movements that were too fast for Briala to catch.

“Liv says thanks, and that you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you like,” explained Nahum.

“I don’t want to impose…”

“You’re not,” he assured. “ _Var vhenas na mala vhenas_.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Briala smiled, and Nahum and his wife looked at each other.

“You are from the city and speak elvhen?”

“A friend taught me some, yes.”

Nahum looked at Ethena. “She is from the city, but knows how to fight, knows the Creators, knows the language… An interesting guest you have brought to us, my daughter.”

“If there’s one thing I know about the Dalish,” Briala couldn’t help but say, “It’s that you severely misjudge your kin in the cities.”

“You’re right,” she was surprised to hear Nahum agree, while Liv nodded her head. “And here we are proven it yet again.”

 

On that note, Ethena said Briala was welcome to eat with them as well. She accepted, and followed the family to the table with the fish. Briala was confused to see it was not cooked, however. But before she even got the chance to ask about it, an elderly hand waved over it with fire between the fingers, and Briala watched the fish turn into a beautifully baked colour before her eyes. She looked up to see Hahren Ghilina on the other side of the table. The woman smiled, and moved onto the person standing behind Briala. Such casual use of magic was… interesting.

There was not much talk around the fire; a few quiet words here and there, but everyone mostly ate in silence. Briala could feel many curious eyes on her all the while, but showed no sign of it. She just nibbled away at the magically cooked fish, and watched Ethena watch the med tent.

 

“As always,” said an older looking elf seated next to Ghilina, instantly drawing everyone’s attention, “We thank Andruil for providing us with our food, and Sylaise for the fire took cook it.” Next to him, Ghilina made hand movements much like those Ethena did, looking towards Liv.

“Thanks to Andruil. Thanks to Sylaise,” echoed the Clan.

“But tonight, we have one more person to thank.” Without a prompt, everyone turned their heads to look at Briala, who felt her ears grow hot. “Briala of Halamshiral. You have returned our sister Ethena to us, who we had sung the dirge for. For this, the hahrens have decided to name you _Vhenallin_.” The elder smiled, “Let us welcome Briala, _Friend of the People_ , with the retelling of our clan’s foundation. Keeper Hanin?”

“Wait,” Briala said, just as Hanin stood up. “I mean no disrespect, but—”

“Then sit down,” a rather snide someone said from across the fire. Briala clenched her jaw, but did just that. She didn’t want a story time, she wanted to get on with saving their lives!

“…Right, um…” Hanin bit his lip, unsure if he should start or not. When he looked at Briala and she made no move to get up again, he hesitantly launched into a long and clearly recited speech. All the while, Ghilina continued with her Silent Signs.

 

Despite her impatience, Briala found herself rather drawn into the tale. Hanin began by recounting the Exalted March on the Dales, something Briala was well versed in already, but found it interesting hearing it from the Dalish perspective. In the schooling she sat in with Celene, the teachers only ever said the Exalted March was provoked by the elves. Briala remembered getting kicked out of that particular lesson, when she asked if by provoked she meant refuse to bow to the humans. After that, her mother told her to never speak during Celene’s studies again, not to risk losing her vicarious education.

Things grew interesting when Hanin explained the clan’s founder, Aradin, was a hailed Emerald Knight who guided a mass of fleeing elves from Halamshiral into the highlands. But Aradin knew the Orlesians would pursue them even here. He went to the _Pools of the Sun_ , and prayed to the Creators for a sign on what to do.

It’s said that Elgar’nan heard Aradin’s prayers. The god’s anger over the destruction of his people was so strong, it fueled incredible Power, breaking even through the Veil. Elgar’nan struck a scar across the earth, and filled it with his furious tears. And so Aradin knew it was time to stop running, and turned to face the army head on. Aradin successfully held his ground during the Fall of the Dales and lived to establish the clan on the very land he protected; _this_ very land. And _Elgar’nan’s Tears_ —what the humans refer to as the _Elfsbood River_ —became the clan’s highway.

Many of those who survived the fighting scattered, some choosing to return to the cities, and some to start clans of their own. But many remained at Aradin’s side. Through the years, the clan’s halla steered them every which way across the highlands, but never outside of them. The humans began building their settlements, Orlesian domination growing wider and wider all the time. Still, the clan refused to move on, ignoring the questions and concerns always received at the Arlathvhen. But Aradin lived and died as a protector of the land, and so would they. Even the halla knew that just as Aradin’s namesake foretold, this was their journey’s end. They would run no more.

 

Hanin sat back down. He was a surprisingly good storyteller, for his age. Despite surely knowing the tale off by heart themselves, Briala noted no bored expressions during the story. When the boy finished, all was quiet for a moment. A time of reflection. Then, Hahren Ghilina spoke up. “For we are the Dalish: Keepers of the Lost lore, the Walkers of the Lonely Path, and never again shall we submit.”

 

After another moment, Briala watched a few family units gather their children and disperse. When Hanin was the only elf without vallaslin remaining, Ghilina looked to Briala. “Now then, Briala. Let us hear what words you’ve brought to us.”

Briala nodded, and took a deep breath. “I have more than words, Hahren. As I said earlier today, I have a plan.

“I know that you all know that there is an Orlesian army on its way to wipe you out this very minute. The man who leads them is Gaspard de Chalons; a _chevalier_ who’s spent most of his life killing us for sport, and will not be interested in hearing the real story; that the Orlesians he claims to be protecting have _poisoned_ your people. And as inspiring as your legend is, we cannot rely on divine intervention.

“If you remain here, they will raze you to the ground. But I understand why you refuse to leave. And lucky for us, there is an empty fortress sitting just past Sahrnia right now, with shelter and near impenetrable walls. The humans refuse to touch it because they believe it’s haunted by elven spirits.” At this, there were a few chuckles. “I say it’s about time that elven fortress is returned to the elves.”

“That’s a really nice idea and all,” said the same elf who told her to shush earlier, “But in case you haven’t noticed, we are in no position to go anywhere with so many ill. Many can’t walk, and those who can require assistance. It’s taken us weeks just to settle _here_.”

“Mina’s right,” said another, with a tattooed arrow running down from the middle of his forehead to his chin. “Do you honestly expect us to abandon our sick, flat-ear?”

“Sav,” one of the elders scolded, “Mind your mouth.” Sav rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond.

“I didn’t say anything about that,” Briala answered him regardless. “And they won’t have to walk.” This certainly earned her puzzled looks, and Briala had to admit that was always a good feeling. “Because lucky for you, there’s an _eluvian_ nearby, isn’t there? Tell me, how big is it? And how far away?”

The puzzled looks quickly turned to astonished ones. “How do _you_ know what an eluvian is?” Someone finally voiced the question on all their minds.

“You know why,” said Sav, “Because she’s a jinker sent by the Dread Wolf!”

“Sav…” Ethena tried to speak up, but Sav ignored her, throwing his hands up in the air.

“We all heard her, screaming in her sleep about _Fen’Harel’s blessing_. And now she not only knows about the eluvians, but knows we have one!” He pointed at her accusingly. “She’s been sent by the Dread Wolf to bring a curse on our clan! As if we need more trouble!”

“How about you shut the fuck up?” Ethena jumped up, speaking much more forcefully this time. “Briala rescued me while you sat around with your thumbs up your ass. My _knight in shining armour_ , you are!”

“Eth, I told you I’m sorry—”

“And I told you we’re through. Leave Briala out of it.”

“Can I explain, please?” Briala interrupted, since no one else was going to, apparently. “ _Yes_ , I know what eluvians are. Yes, I can sense them. Because I also know how to use them. The only person I have to thank for that is _me_. And I am placing a great amount of trust in you all, sharing this. So if you can trust me in return, I can help save you.” Even Sav seemed to be stunned. Briala figured at this point, they were either going to shoot her on spot, or let her do her thing. When no arrow pierced her heart, she knew she had succeeded, and now only had to explain her plan.

 

“I’ll ask again: How big is the eluvian?”

“Pretty big,” said Ethena. “Bigger than a wagon, but smaller than an average Aravel.”

“So, big enough to carry the sick through, then?”

“ _Carry through?_ ”

“Yes.” Briala hopped off the log she was seated on and got down on her knees. With her finger, she began drawing in the dirt. “The eluvians look like regular mirrors, but when activated, open a door to a pocket in the Fade. We—that is, my allies in the city—we call it _The Vir’bora_. Because you can travel from one to another through this pocket.” The Dalish began sharing wide eyed looks, and a few began whispering. Briala recognized what this must be like to them. “I know this is a lot to take in, but please just let me explain: If a group and myself can go to this eluvian and bring it back here, I can activate it. We can then take as many as we can through the mirror. The small party of us left can then transport the mirror to the Keep, where the rest of the Clan can pass back through.” As she spoke, she drew several step by step images. Briala was no artist by any means, but she figured the stick figures would get the message across. “It’s a tactic I’ve used in the past. It’s a lot easier to move a single mirror than several heavy crates of supplies. Not only will we go a lot more unnoticed by the humans, but there will be no risk to those unfit to make the trip.”

“…I take back what I said earlier,” Hanin whistled. “Unless you’re some kind of special crazy, which we really shouldn’t rule out, this might work.”

“There’s no might about it,” Briala assured. “This _will_ work.”

 

There were questions, as to be expected. Briala did her best to answer with as minimal giveaway as possible; she was far past her comfort zone with the information she shared just going through with this plan. When they asked her how she made this discovery, she simply said “Another Dalish clan helped.” (Not entirely false.) When they asked her what she used this knowledge for, she simply said “For my people.” And when they asked why she was willing to share this with them, she simply said, “You are my people.” It was enough. They would really do this.

 

“The mirror you speak of,” one of the hunters said, “To get there and back is a day and a half’s journey from here. _And_ you’ll need a full party for protection, and just to carry the damn thing.”

“I volunteer,” Hanin perked up.

Briala watched every single elf instantly answer with “No!” and “Absolutely not!” It was like seeing an army of parents scolding their child for getting ready to jump out in front of a wagon.

Ghilina quieted the roar. “You are the _Keeper_ now, child, and we have no First and Second. We _cannot_ risk the life of our last mage trained for such a role. More than that, you are needed here, to tend for the ill.”

Hanin scrunched up his face. “Right, because I’ve been _so_ successful thus far! It’s… I _can’t_ …” His breathing grew heavy, and he closed his eyes. With a deep sigh, he stilled his shivers. “I know.”

“Then Mina and I can go,” said one of the hunters Briala recognized as saving her from the bear.

“I will too,” came the voice of Ethena. Briala watched Nahum open his mouth to object, but Ethan pouted in his and her mother’s direction. He remained quiet, but still looked like he desperately wanted to say something.

“Then you should leave as soon as possible, if you are up for it.”

“I just slept for three days, I’m good.”

Ghilina smiled. “Then if we are all in agreement, I suggest the four of you prepare for the excursion.”

 

* * *

 

Demons did not often bother Ethena, and she supposed she was not as appealing a vessel as a mage with more talent. But the despair demons weren’t even interested in possession. No. They were satisfied with gnawing at her brain, picking and pulling at any bad thought they could, chilling her from the inside out. The remains of despair’s grip left permanent scars that only grew bigger with each intrusive thought, until she wanted to swim to the bottom the river, just to let the water smother her for a moment’s peace.

She didn’t, of course. And after a few days of having despair ride around in her head, it was lifted just as fast as it came. The scars were still there, and always would be, but they stopped bleeding for the time being. Things were manageable. They’d be back of course, possibly on as short a notice. It wasn’t something Ethena contemplated on a lot, but she knew that. But there was no telling when, and it wasn’t worth thinking about, especially when there was something to _do_.

 

Ethena was finishing up stuffing her belt with necessities, when Nahum approached her from behind. She had already said goodbye to her mother, and supposed it was his turn. “I assume you’re at least going to see him before you leave?” He asked.

“Depends on who you mean by him,” she shrugged, while swinging her belt around her waist and clicking it together. “If you mean Sulan… Yes.”

“Good. He’s been waiting long enough…” Ethena turned around and fell into his hug. “I don’t suppose I could convince you not to—”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Figures,” she felt him shake his head. “Just… Make sure you come back this time. I don’t think your mother could handle loosing you again.” She nodded, and exited their home.

 

Walking towards the med tent, Ethena saw Mina and Asher speaking with Briala, no doubt asking all the questions Ethena wanted to ask herself. Starting with, “Who in the Abyss _are_ you?” But they would have plenty of time to talk on the long journey ahead. She waved in their direction, and pointed to the med tent to signify where she was going when they waved back. Asher nodded his head in understanding; he no doubt already visited his father and two brothers.

 

“Eth!” Ethena scowled, hearing Sav run up behind her. He always did take twice as many steps as necessary. When he went to grab at her shoulder, she pulled it away, refusing to look at him.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Please, can’t we just about this like a normal couple?”

“We’re _not_ a couple, not anymore.”

“You don’t really mean that,” Sav insisted.

“Actually I fucking do, now get out of my sight!”

“Eth, _please_ …” He whined. When she began to walk away, he followed her. “I said I was sorry! I thought you were dead.”

“Because you _left_ me to _die_ ,” her voice cracked. “You let that templar _pin me to the ground_ while their archers killed the others, and you _ran_.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Briala didn’t need to ask that question.”

“So you’re gonna leave me now, after all I’ve put up with for you?”

“You’re certainly making the leaving you part much easier.”

Sav tried to grab her once more, and Ethena had enough. She turned around and sent Sav flying backwards with a forceful mind blast. The strength surprised her, augmented with her emotions. She was pleased with the result, watching him stagger for a moment before looking at her fearfully.

“Listen and understand,” she said, glowering at him, “I don’t want to hear you. I don’t want to see you. If I’m at one side of the camp, you’re going to be at the other. If you so much as approach me again, I’ll… I’ll kill you,” she squinted her eyes as menacingly as possible. “And you _know I can_ , too.” Sav nodded quickly, and scrambled to regain his footing. When he did, he bolted. Just as fast as he bolted in Sahrnia.

 

Ethena checked herself over to make sure she was fully covered, and folded the lovingly knitted scarf from her mother up over her mouth. She slid her hands into the rubbery nug skin gloves hanging on the armour rack outside the med tent, and opened and closed the flap as quickly as possible.

Even the air smelled sick. While one half of the tent—the one with those actively dying and kept under Hanin’s entropic spell—was much worse, it was easy to tell that many who were kept in this one would be over there soon enough. There were many moans and groans, some taking small sips of water, some sleeping. Ethena was relieved and anxious at the same time to see that Sulan was wide awake.

“Aunt Ethy,” he immediate choked out upon seeing her. She smiled at him behind her scarf, and kneeled down beside his cot. Sweat was dripping off his forehead and scruffy black hair. His eyes were rimmed red, as were the raised veins crawling up his neck. The ten year old boy had aged a thousand years from a single contaminated serving of fish. She grabbed the already soaked cloth beside him and began dabbing at his face. “Nanae said you’d come.”

“I couldn’t make her a liar now, could I?” Ethena said, in as light-hearted a voice as she could muster, seeing her nephew in such a state.

“She also said you don’t sleep, and that’s why you were too tired to see me.”

“I…” How exactly did one explain such things to a child? “You know when you scary dreams?” She asked, and he nodded his head. “I’ve had lots of them lately. And they don’t go away.”

“You need Bunny.”

“What?”

“Bunny! Remember when you gave me Bunny? To protect me from the Dread Wolf when I sleep. Because Andruil loves bunnies.” With this, the boy rustled under his blankets and pulled out the small, stuffed hare known as Bunny. The toy had seen better days, its fur matted and stitched mouth frayed into a permanent half smile. Every time Ethena looked at it, she remembered making it for him, when he was but four. Naturally all the kids wanted stuffed toys themselves from her upon seeing it, and she ended up creating a collection of rabbits, snoufleurs, bears, owls, nugs, halla… But none admittedly had as much care put into them as the one Sulan was holding out to her now.

“You keep your Bunny, Sulan.”

“You need her more,” the child insisted.

Ethena held in a sigh, and accepted the toy. “Alright, I’ll take Bunny for a little while, and give her back when I return, okay?” After looking it over to make sure there was no sign of red anywhere, she put the rabbit in her pocket and made sure he saw her do so.

Sulan frowned. “You mean you’re leaving again?” Ethena nodded. “How many sleeps?”

“Just one. I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.” She made an exaggerated smooching noise as she tapped his cheek with her gloved finger; the best she could do when not able to give him a real one.

“Ethena?” Ethena turned around to see Briala poking her head into the tent.

“What are you doing? Get out!” She waved, and the city elf immediately backed out. Ethena turned back to Sulan once more and assured him when she got back she’d sit with him longer, before leaving him again.

 

“No one is allowed in the med tent without protection,” Ethena explained upon exiting, seeing Briala leaning up against the pole outside. She carefully slid her hands out of the gloves without touching their exterior, and back onto the rack.

“Sorry, that was ill-thought of me. The others wanted me to go get you,” Briala explained, pointing to Mina and Asher still standing by the fire. Ethena nodded. “If I can ask… And if you don’t want to answer, that’s fine… Who was that boy?”

“My nephew, Sulan.”

“But… his ears,” Briala said confusingly, referring to the boy’s lack of strongly pointed tips, barely even noticeable except up close. No doubt he looked completely human to her from that distance.

“He’s no less elven than he is human,” Ethena quickly insisted. She then gave a short explanation. “His father was human, yes. My sister, Vellan… She and some others got the bright idea to go looking for the _Cradle of Sulevin_. No one returned. Until a few years later, she did, heavy with child, and a human hunter with her. She claimed he saved her from a frozen death.” The two started walking back to the rest of their party as Ethena spoke. “The clan permitted him to stay with us, to help raise Vellan’s child.”

“What happened to Vellan?” Briala asked.

“She died. Giving birth.”

“What happened to the father?”

“…He died too.” Not a lie. “And so I became a single adopting mother-figure at twenty-three.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ethena assured. “You’re right, his ears aren’t as pointed as mine or yours, and his eyes aren’t as big. But every time I see his face, all I see is my sister.” She smiled. “There’s a piece of her still with me.” Her smile turned sour. “Which is why I will personally march to Val Royeaux and light the Empress on fire if this sickness...” She couldn’t even finish. Fortunately she didn’t have to, as Briala placed a reassuring hand on her arm, and they stopped just short of the others.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Briala said. Ethena clenched her fists, but nodded her head. “Are you sure you want to come retrieve the eluvian?”

“ _Elgar’nan_ , yes. I need to get out of here.”

 

“Are you ready?” Asher asked, he and Mina taking it upon themselves to join up.

“Yes, let’s go. Time is not on our side.” Briala grazed her hands over the two silver daggers the clan returned to her, now that she was _Vhenallin._ Hopefully she would not have to use them, and they would get there and back without trouble.

Indeed, time was not on their side.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaspard is insufferable.  
> Briala shares some advice as the elves approach the eluvian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Hey all, important note about the second part of this chapter:** One of the (many) things I disliked about Celene and Briala's relationship, is how one-sided it was in terms of providing comfort and compassion to each other. It was always Briala's job to console Celene, who rarely did in reverse. (Did she at all? I can't even recall.) So, I just want to make it very clear that while it is Briala who provides comfort to Ethena in this chapter, I promise it will not follow the same pattern. I intend to write a relationship where they can help _each other_.  
>  What's more, Briala opens up a bit about her backstory here. While it may seem odd for her to share such personal information to essentially a stranger, even without details, I see it more as one person who's experienced trauma talking with another, in attempt to normalize it.  
> I just wanted to clear these things up!

Gaspard was getting too old for this. Even while he dare say he had a better physique than most men half his age, his back and rear were aching from riding on horseback for so long. 68-year-old bones were still 68.

One might think it would make him contemplate his reasoning for continuing the fight for the throne, when his time to enjoy it would be limited anyway. But there was simply no one better suited. While Celene played tea party with Ferelden, he would retake the country that was rightfully Orlais’ to rule. While Celene treated the elves like pets, he would see them crushed like the vermin they were. While Celene threw coin after coin at the University, he would rebuild the once great Orlesian military. And then he could die, knowing he had made Orlais a place for _true_ Orlesians, like himself. There was no higher, no nobler calling.

That of course, and by all the Maker’s Might, did he want that throne.

Gaspard mused all this while admiring his green and silver banners fluttering outside the window, and listening to the familiar sound of clinking armour as the last of his men dismounted. They had stopped for the night in a pitifully small town by the name of Maurevert, on the edge of the Dales. The locals did not take kindly to their soldiers, as the last time Gaspard’s men passed through, they had to confiscate most of the town’s supplies in the name of their rebellion. Gaspard didn’t see why their cross expressions were necessary; the townspeople seemed to be doing just fine now. Well, fine for the standards expected of such a community.

         

“This water is getting cold again,” Gaspard called out. The woman whose house he claimed for the night cracked the door open to her bedroom, where the nobleman had made himself at home in her small tub. “Have some more boiled for me, would you?”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but we are running low on water, and my son cannot possibly make the trip to the river at such an hour,” she managed to stutter out, while setting his freshly washed clothes on her bed.

“Why not?”

“It’s so dark,” she said, as if the answer was obvious.

“Then give the lad a torch,” Gaspard lifted his hand out of the lukewarm water and waved her off. The woman bit her lip, and hurried away. Gaspard sighed. He wished for his tub back in Verchiel, with the claw foot legs and porcelain casing, big enough to actually stretch out. As it was, he was left letting his legs dangle out over the edges of the crude metal tin barely bigger than a laundry basket. Perhaps next time he should see what it would take to bring a proper one with him. This was hardly the remedy for his aching body he’d hoped for.

 

His mind drifted to happier thoughts, like finally seeing to the death of that rat-faced, knife-eared _“Marquise.”_ Would he slay her upon seeing her, perhaps, or take her alive and bring her back to the capitol to have her hanged with the Inquisition’s blessing, thanks to his bard’s forgery? The later, while much more enjoyable, would risk escape.

This of course, relied on the assumption she hadn’t perished from a long list of dangers in the Emprise already. No, Gaspard knew otherwise. What made Briala more dangerous than the average elf, was that she just didn’t know how to die. Gaspard fully expected to see her among the ranks of the wild elves, and settled on a compromise. He would take her alive, alright. He would take her, and make her watch his men kill every single one of her fellow creatures, and then he would gut her where she stood. The elven rebels would surely fall into obscurity without someone a tad more civilized to lead them, and with the rebellion crushed, he could put his full focus on Celene. _With_ the support of every noble who’d have him to thank for ending the uprising, while the Empress failed time and again.

 

The water grew colder, and Gaspard tired of waiting for the woman to return. With a heavy sigh, he got up out of the tub and dressed himself. He puttered around the room, looking at the woman’s collection of knick-knacks on her windowsill. He could scarce find anything of value; the poor woman barely even had any jewelry to her name. How people managed to live as such truly baffled him.

 

When there was a knock on the door, he assumed she had finally returned with hot water. “It’s too late for that now, but you can dispose of this bathwater.”

“Your Highness?” It was one of his men instead, a fellow Chevalier, proudly toting a yellow feather on his head. He was otherwise out of armour, as Gaspard was.

“My apologies, good man,” Gaspard set the bauble he was toying with back on the windowsill, and gave his full attention to the Chevalier. “Report, then?”

“Yes, my lord: Some of the men have found lodgings with the locals. The rest of us have finished pitching the tents. We just did a headcount: 143 are still accounted for.”

“143?” Gaspard questioned, “What happened to the seven missing, then?”

“Deserters, we believe.”

Gaspard scoffed. “We’ll do better without them, then. The battlefield is no place for weak-willed men.” 143 was far more than enough; Gaspard knew he could have done with half that. But 150 made for much more impressive Bard stories. “Tell the men we ride with the sun. With good pace, we’ll be in Sahrnia by next nightfall.”

The Dalish had no idea what they were in for.

 

* * *

 

It was easy to see that Briala was nervous, as the group weaved their way through the dense forest. Ethena watched her eyes constantly darting around, and her arms hover over the silver daggers at her waist. The clan had given her a coat not unlike those worn by Ethena and Asher. It hugged the body well and fell all the way down to the knees, made of thick, dark grey leather of the Great Bear, and lined with coyote fur. The only difference was hers was completely bare of adornments. While the clan did not hunt Great Bears often, one gave enough resources for many things, and it lasted very well. A hunter may have the same coat for most of their life, and many chose to decorate them with beads and stitching. That, and while Ethena liked to wrap a sash around her waist over the coat, Briala left it hanging loose and open.

Perhaps she was worried because she no longer had the fancy armour she came with; Mina was now the only one of them with anything that could be considered _real_ armour, in her dark leathers. But surely she must have been warmer than in that pitiful excuse of a jacket she had before. And it was not as if they needed to fear the dark, with their elven sight having no more trouble under the night sky than the day. (It would no doubt be a frightening sight to any shemlen, though, to see four pairs of illuminant eyes all of different shapes floating in the woods.)

Mina must have observed the same fright, but drew a different conclusion. “You’re scared of another bear attack?” She asked, while trying to fish a strand of her long black hair out of her nose ring. Briala nodded. “Don’t worry, you won’t find any in this part of the forest; if my curvaceous bod can barely thread through these trees, they’ve got no hope.”

This did seem to put Briala at ease. “I see.”

“Now _wolves_ , on the other hand—”

“Don’t scare the girl, Mina,” scolded Asher from ahead of them. As the oldest and most experienced hunter, marked by the flecks of grey in his hair, he led the party. It was always easy to see his disapproval, because whenever he scrunched up his nose, the bright red arrow tattooed down the middle scrunched up with it.

“What? I’d figure she’d have nothing to fear from them, being buddy-buddy with the _Lord of Tricksters_.”

“Are you seriously still hung up over that?” Ethena asked, shooting her a critical look.

“Are you seriously _not?_ ” Mina challenged in return. “She knows way too much for an elf from the city.”

“I told you already, you’re not the first Dalish elves I’ve met,” Briala defend herself.

Mina huffed. “Right, _Clan Virnehn_. The same clan that no one’s heard from in years, now. That sure checks out.”

“I wasn’t talking about them, I was talking about… a close friend.”

“Is that right. Where is this friend, then?”

“Yes, it is. And I don’t know. He disappeared...” Briala's face fell mournfully in thought. “I don’t want to talk about it. But if you really don’t trust me, why did you volunteer to come, then?”

“Technically Asher volunteered _for_ me, but the way I see it, until you prove you’re not some kind of bad omen, I’m keeping you where I can see you.”

“Fine. Fair enough.” Briala pushed Mina out of the way to step over a fallen log and up on Asher’s heels, leaving Mina and Ethena at the rear.

 

“You really don’t like her, do you?” Ethena asked the other woman.

“Nope.”

“And that has nothing to do with her also coming from the humans?”

“What, you think I’m jealous? That the clan immediately accepted her, that she requires no agonizing years of learning to fight, learning history, learning the language? That she was named _Vhenallin_ in a matter of days? Oh no. I’m not jealous at all.” Her sarcastic voice said otherwise.

“We’re desperate for any help we can get, and you know that.”

“Whatever,” Mina shut the conversation down. Ethena did not approve of her aloofness, but expected it. For as long as she knew her, since when she first came to the clan as a young runaway “apostate,” she had always been rather… harsh spoken. But the clan had never treated her poorly, like she was treating Briala now. But if there really was jealousy at play, Ethena couldn’t say she blamed her.

 

Things were quiet among them, after that. Ethena didn’t like it. Her mind was always the loudest when it was silent around her. It didn’t take long for her thoughts to start travelling to darker places, worrying about Sulan, worrying about her parents, worrying about herself… And soon she was back in that fishing shack in the human village, with the templar man looming over her. She could feel his iron grip on her shoulders. She could smell the lyrium on his breath. She could hear his cruel words in her ears. Ethena raised her arms to cover them, but his voice didn’t stop coming. She flinched, expecting the punch to the face that came after his “savage” name-calling, tripped over the knotted roots at her feet, and went tumbling down.

Ethena thought she heard someone say her name, but everything around her was strange and foreign. She tried to push herself off the ground, but felt like moving through mud. Even her breath was harsh and heavy, like swallowing water instead of air.

Someone was next to her. Dark brown curls flowing like bubbling water over tree roots of a similar colour. Briala was lying on her stomach, and Ethena watched her mouth move. She was repeating something, and so Ethena tried again to hear the words.

“Breathe in.” Ethena took in a huge breath. “Hold it.” Ethena held it for a second. “Breathe out.” Ethena exhaled. Briala repeated it all over again, and Ethena took the deep breaths the other woman counted out. It was hard to tell how long it took, but soon her lungs were no longer underwater, and her breathing was slower and approaching normal. “Think about right now,” Briala continued, now that Ethena was breathing again. “We’re in the forest. The air is cold. The branches are creaking. The ground is hard. There is no…” she trailed off, then corrected, “There is no danger at this very moment.”

Ethena tried again to get up, this time succeeding. She brushed herself off, and stood on her feet. Briala followed.

“I’m sorry,” said Ethena.

“What the fuck was that?” Mina asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well… let’s hope it doesn’t happen in the middle of a fight,” said Asher, in a less condescending tone than Mina, yet made Ethena hurt all the same. The two of them began walking again.

 

“It’s okay,” Briala whispered softly as she brushed herself off, sending dry pine needles everywhere. “I get them too.” Ethena still didn’t understand. Briala looked at the other two ahead of them, then hesitantly spoke. “I witnessed my parents’ murder when I was thirteen years old. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I’m still thirteen, and their blood is still pooling at my feet on the reading room floor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just when I thought I could finally start to move on,” she continued, “A woman I thought I could trust gave a thousand of my people a fiery death. Innocent people; children, even. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I’m still there, smelling the smoke and feeling the heat on my back.”

“…Halamshiral.” Even their clan had heard the story of Empress Celene’s mass murder of their city kin. It never occurred to Ethena that Briala would have been there, but of course she would have. She said she was from Halamshiral.

“Yes. I suppose the assassination of my parents wasn’t enough blood on her hands.”

“The _Empress of Orlais_ had your parents killed?”

“And every other servant in the palace.”

Suddenly a lot more about Briala made more sense. If her parents were royal servants, if she was, that explained how she was so well spoken, and knew how to fight to boot. Many elves from the city were not so fortunate. But Mythal, at what price? “So you were a servant of the _Empress_ , then? Did she make you lick her boots?”

Briala let out a short and quiet chuckle, and Ethena was glad to have successfully lightened the conversation, even if she wasn’t sure what was quite so funny. “You could say that.”

“Well. Anyway,” she lifted her hand up to fiddle with her hair awkwardly, “Thank you. It’s, it’s like you said; suddenly it was like… I was there again…”

“I know.”

“But it _doesn’t make sense_ …”

“I know.”

“I won’t let it happen again.”

“It might,” said Briala, though it wasn’t what Ethena wanted to hear. “If it does, just try to breathe like before, and think about right now. It’s easier said than done, but I find it helps a bit, at least. Until it passes.”

Until it passes. It passed, didn’t it? “Thank you,” Ethena whispered back. For helping her, and for confiding such a personal piece of who she was. For a second it made Ethena feel guilty about her earlier avoidance. Perhaps if it came up again, she could tell her… No. Ethena realized she valued what this woman thought of her, and would not ruin it by sharing _that_. She placed a comforting hand on Briala’s shoulder, as Briala did to her before. Briala nodded with a tight smile, and the two hurried to catch up to the others. As the slope of the land started to go down, Ethena knew they were approaching the cavern home to the ancient magic mirror. And the varterral that guarded it.


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group finds the eluvian. And a varterral.  
> Ethena's impulsiveness is both rewarding and near fatal.

Briala broke off from the group to relieve herself, and when she returned, all three Dalish elves stared at her intently. Asher had removed the bow from his back, Ethena clutched the piece of wood that her magic bow sprung from, and Mina held one similar, though much thicker and longer. The hairs on the back of her neck raised, and Briala instinctively backed up a bit.

“Is something wrong?” She asked, unsure of what to make of the situation, but instinctively found herself reaching for her daggers. She wished she had a bow with her—she was so much better with a bow. Had she done something to provoke a fight without knowing?

“The mirror is in a cavern, and the entrance just ahead of us. But there is something you need to know,” said Asher. “It’s important that you remain calm; it may be able to sense fear from this distance.”

“What?”

“There is an ancient creature that lives in the cavern below,” he explained. “Some Dalish only believe them to be legends, but we know they are very real. It’s said that Dirthamen created the first of its kind from trees and rock, to protect the People and our treasures.” Briala felt herself grow cold. “It is called a _varterral_.”

“I am… familiar with such creatures,” she almost inaudibly whispered.

“You—What?” Asher raised his brows in disbelief.

“There was a varterral guarding the central chamber, where I unlocked the eluvians. It was a difficult fight.”

“Do you seriously expect us to believe you survived a fight with a varterral?” Mina asked.

“I nearly didn’t. And I was not alone.” Though it seemed she might as well have been. Briala remembered watching Celene risk her life to save her champion, Michel de Chevin, but let the varterral crush her instead of taking the opening they both saw was there. If not for the surprising life-saving healing spell from Gaspard’s pet mage, Lienne, things would have turned out very differently for the Empire. “Its rocky carapace was impossible to breach. We only managed to kill it by hacking away at its underside.”

“You didn’t kill it,” Asher shook his head. “Varterrals reincarnate over time, as long as what they are bound to guard remains.” Well, wasn’t that a lovely thought. “And a fight is exactly what we would rather avoid. Which is why we need to leave our weapons here. If the varterral does not sense any threat from us, it shouldn’t attack. It hasn’t before.”

“What if it does?” Briala challenged. “Then we’ll be defenceless.”

“If for some reason it does, I’ll run back up and grab them,” Mina shrugged. “Besides, maybe _you_ had trouble taking one down, but I’d like to see that so-called impenetrable rock against _this_ …” A gigantic blade sprung from the piece of wood Mina held before Briala’s eyes. It was as long and wide as she was, yet she held it as if it was weightless. Upon seeing Briala’s amazement, Mina smiled and did a few swings.

“Stop wasting your mana and put that thing away,” Asher scolded, but Mina ignored him.

“I know what kind of magic that is, now,” Briala said, excited to put it together. “I didn’t recognize it when seeing Ethena’s bow, but Emprise Celene’s Court Enchanter could summon a blade just like that.” Briala tried to recall the conversation she once had with Madame de Fer. It had been some time ago, when they both accompanied Celene to some soiree or another. She witnessed her evade an assassination attempt, offer to spare the man his life in exchange for working for her instead, and when he refused, she sliced him in half like butter with a conjured sword. “A Spirit Blade, I think she called it. The weapon of a Knight-Enchanter.”

“No, it’s a weapon of a _Dirth'ena Enasalin_ ,” Mina corrected.

“Then maybe it’s the same thing?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Ethena said, throwing her own stick to the ground in front of her.

Asher followed her lead by laying down his bow and quiver next to it. “Ethena is right. Mina, quit showing off.” Mina groaned, but the golden glowing blade disappeared, and she too dropped the stick to the ground. Briala unsheathed her daggers and set them down, while Asher explained their plan. “The only way in and out of the cavern is by rope. We’ll have to tie the eluvian to the end and pull it up in order to get it out. Then the real problem will be carrying it back.”

“And the varterral?” Briala asked.

“Ignore it. And whatever you do, _stay calm_. You panic, it’ll panic.”

 

With their weapons abandoned, the crew pressed on for another few meters ahead, where the downward slope of the land cut off into an outright hole in the ground. There was a carcass of a small bear on the other side, and drag marks all over the ground. Even without being told, it was obvious this was the home of a large and dangerous creature. Briala didn’t even realize her hands were shaking until she felt Ethena’s hand steady her fist. She looked up and saw the other woman’s encouraging smile. Don’t panic. Right.

A very thick rope tied to the base of the closest tree dangled over the edge of the hole. Asher was the first to go down. When a small rock came flying out of the hole, the three women breathed a sigh of relief. Mina was next, followed by Ethena, and then it was Briala’s turn. She grabbed onto the rope with her back facing the hole, and carefully got her footing against the rock. Slow and steady, she vertically walked herself down the side, as the others had done, until she landed over the pile of excess rope on the cavern floor.

When Asher said it was a cavern, Briala was expecting, well, a dirty old cave. She did not expect what looked far more akin to some kind of ancient elven ruin, buried beneath the earth. It must have been above ground at some point; perhaps the Tevinters buried it the same way they buried Arlathan. To her right she saw a hallway that led only to a crumbled dead end of rock and dirt. The only thing seeming keeping this portion together was numerous thick columns, all holding braziers with a strange, greenish fire that gave off a low light, but no warmth. Remnants of what was once beautiful golden tiles lined the walls in swirling patterns. The ground descended into a vast square floor of the same tiny tiles that must have taken forever to put together. But then again, forever was nothing to the ancient elves. Still, the amount of gratuitous décor almost outmatched the palace in Val Royeaux.

 

In the centre of the square floor was the varterral. It seemed smaller than the one she remembered, but maybe that was because its massive, segmented legs were folded up in a resting position, cradling its torso with its tiny arms tucked underneath. The position strangely reminded her of a resting cat, if a cat had a stone hide and insect-like barbs. Briala was pretty sure seeing the creature made her heart stop momentarily, and Asher held out his arm signalling everyone to stand still when it stirred. It lifted its head with the tongue lolling out to the side, licked its fangs and settled back down. The group unanimously exhaled.

 

“What is this place?” Briala asked, brushing her hand against one of the columns, still hesitant to take her eyes away from the varterral ahead of them.

“We think it was a palace of some kind,” Asher answered. “Either that or a really fancy tomb. But most of it is caved in. Some have tried to excavate, but it only resulted it more being buried.”

“What would a palace be doing all the way out here?”

“Well, if the eluvians are means of transport like you said, maybe that’s why there’s such a big one here.” Ethena motioned her head to the opposite side of the room, behind the varterral, where quite possibly one of the biggest eluvians Briala had ever seen stood. It was as wide as a carriage, and twice as tall, with a gold-plated rim of elegant design, and flanked by two large, stone dragons.

The only problem was, it was mounted to the wall.

 

Asher motioned for them to follow him around the varterral, hugging the wall to give it as much space as possible. Upon reaching the mirror, Briala asked the obvious question. “How are we supposed to get it off?”

Asher answered first. “…Perhaps we should have thought about that.”

“Maybe we could try and cut the wall around it? This stone is very old,” Mina suggested.

“Then how are we going to carry it back with even more weight?” Briala asked, “Besides, no matter what happens, we can’t break it.”

“Well, I don’t see you offering any suggestions.”

 

As they talked, Ethena was unclipping her belt, unwrapping the sash around her waist, and taking off her coat. It wasn’t until she began scaling one of the statues that the other two Dalish noticed.

“What in the Void are you doing?” Asher hissed.

“Just be ready to catch it!”

Ethena pulled herself up onto the top of the statue, where she swung her body around to reach for the top edge of the mirror. She then inched her way over until only her left foot was on the dragon’s head. Asher, Mina and Briala scrambled to get beneath the mirror while with great flexibility, Ethena brought that foot and the other against the wall above where her hands gripped the eluvian, and used her legs to push.

         

Everything happened very fast at that point. The eluvian broke free, and Ethena fell head first, thankfully right into Asher instead of the ground. With raised arms, Mina and Briala caught the eluvian, as rock and dust fell all around them.

The varterral shrieked, springing off the ground and hitting its body against the ceiling. More debris came raining down, littering Briala’s sight in a cloud of powder, just in time for the varterral to swing around and smash one of its giant clawed legs into the ground, barely missing Mina but causing her to drop her side of the mirror. The eluvian fell on top of Briala, pinning her down.

Ethena and Asher jumped to their feet, and Asher ran to Briala’s rescue. “I don’t think it liked that!”

“Plan B then,” yelled Mina, who upon getting up herself, bolted for the rope, narrowly dodging a spray of acid from the creature.

 

With Mina’s escape, the varterral turned to the three elves remaining. It let out another hissing scream, and raised its two front legs. But just before it could bring them down to crush both them and the mirror, it stumbled backwards in a stunned state. Briala turned her head to see Ethena’s arms extended in front of her. When the varterral regained its composure, she made a forceful pushing motion, sending it into another stagger.

“Get the eluvian out of here,” Ethena said through a strained voice and clenched teeth. To push a telekinetic blast on such a large creature was visibly draining. She grabbed her coat off the ground and just had time to put it back on when she had to hit the varterral with her magic again.

Asher and Briala did as she said. The two lifted the mirror off the ground, and breathed a sigh of relief to see it undamaged. They flipped it over so its back was to the ground, and began dragging it towards the rope. The varterral lunged for them, but Ethena hit it with yet another flare of stunning magic.

         

Asher heaved the eluvian up on an angle against the wall, while Briala fumbled with the rope. She threw it around the eluvian, where from the other side, Asher kicked it across the ground underneath. Briala pulled the rope tight against the grooved edges, and they repeated the process a few more times, until the mirror was tightly secured. By this time Ethena was on her knees from the strain of repeatedly mind blasting the varterral.

“Hurry up,” she called, her voice cracking.

“Hurrying!” Briala began to tie the end of the rope off while Asher climbed it.

By the time he reached the top, she had finished the knot, and began to climb the rope herself, ignoring the pain in her fingers as she shimmied upwards as fast as she could.

When Briala was almost to the top of the rope, she saw Ethena collapse beneath her. The varterral picked her up with its tiny arms and raised her to its gaping, fanged jaws. Her scream was matched with the battle cry of Mina, who jumped from the cavern opening. She descended past Briala with her Spirit Blade ignited, and with the force of the fall, sliced clean through the varterral’s right front leg at the top joint.

Gold ichor sprayed freely, drenching Mina in it as she tumbled to the ground with the severed limb. The varterral dropped Ethena and swayed backwards, its balance shifted completely. The two pulled themselves up, and ran for the rope.

 

When all four elves were above ground again, they each gripped the rope tightly.

Asher’s orders were barely audible over the varterral’s screams. “On my count! One, two, three!” Briala hauled with all her might. In sync with each other, the elves pulled the eluvian up out of the cavern as fast as they were able. A few times she felt her feet start to slip, but thankfully regained her footing with each misstep.

When the edge of the mirror poked out of the hole in the ground, with one last tug, Asher fell onto Briala, who fell onto Ethena, who fell onto Mina as it was heaved up onto the ground.

“Come on,” said Asher between huffs of breath, the first to pick himself up, “let’s move.”

Briala took the back end of the mirror and Asher took the front. Mina helped Ethena off the ground, and they all started to sprint. Briala tried to adjust the way she carried the mirror, but no matter how she held it, her hands hurt, and her arms were growing tired, too. She noticed Asher’s arms were quivering, as well. It was clear they would have to take turns carrying the eluvian back.

         

When the group reached what was deemed to be a safe distance away, they stopped to finally catch a breath. After carefully setting the mirror down, Briala let herself fall on her knees, and it was like every muscle from her back to her fingers screamed in relief.

“Here, I brought some lyrium,” Mina said to Ethena, who looked about ready to collapse. She pulled a vial off her belt and handed it to the elf still leaning against her.

“Thanks, but it’s okay, I did too. Where’s— _No_ …” Ethena muttered, reaching around her waist only to realize that she forgot to retrieve her belt. “I need to go back.” She grabbed the offered vial after all, popped off the cork and started chugging it.

“What? Are you _insane?_ ” Mina cried, but Ethena was already running back towards the cavern with the wounded varterral.

She called out, “I thought that was far past questioning!”

 

The three remaining elves remained still, stunned. Briala sighed, and got up off her knees. “Come on,” she said, but as she picked her daggers up off the ground from where they left them, as well as the hilt of Ethena’s Spirit Bow, the other two did not move. Briala looked at them, confused. “We need to go after her!”

“We _need_ to get this eluvian back,” Asher corrected. “You said it yourself that we’re pressed for time.”

Briala was shocked. “We can’t just let her—”

“Look, Briala,” said Mina, with a surprisingly soft tone, “Ethena is… She just does this kind of thing a lot, okay? Why do you think she got captured by the humans?”

“Because her allies abandoned her. Just as you’re suggesting now.”

“If Ethena wants to risk her life for Elgar’nan knows what reason, that’s up to her. But we’re risking _everyone’s_ by wasting time here.” Asher made his way back over to the mirror. “She’ll catch up to us if she can.”

Briala shook her head. “Fine. I’ll go after her myself.” She picked up Asher’s quiver and strung it over her shoulders, then picked up his bow. He made no objection. Briala turned to head back, before letting out a harsh breath. “If I don’t come back, you already know the passphrase. Apparently I have a tendency to scream in my sleep.” With that, she broke into a run.

 

When she reached the cavern, Briala skidded to a halt before the rope, gripped it tightly with the sleeves of her coat covering her hands, and haphazardly threw herself down over the edge. She hit the rock side hard, and slid down, to where Ethena was yet again stunning the beast, which had regained a bit of composure since losing its leg. She had made her way back over to where the eluvian once was, right above her discarded belt. Briala watched her reach down for it, but her mind blast was weaker than before, and the varterral recovered before she could hit it again. It spat acid in her direction, and Ethena jumped behind one of the stone dragons.

“Ethena!” Briala called her name, and the other elf looked at her in utter shock. Briala tossed her the familiar wooden bow grip, and the glowing yellow limbs instantly sprung out when Ethena caught it. She made the motion of drawing an arrow, and Briala witnessed one appear just as it did before, when facing the templar. The arrow hit the varterral’s open wound, and magic sparks flew when it sizzled out on impact. It shrieked, and swung around to try and hit Ethena with its back leg. She dove out of the way, but the dragon statue broke into pieces, and the chunks went flying.

Briala drew her own bow at the creature, and let an arrow fly right into its mouth, remembering that had done significant damage the last time she faced such an opponent. The varterral roared, only leaving an opportunity to send yet another arrow down its throat. When she tried for a third, it snapped its jaws shut, and the arrow bounced off its rocky body. It lunged forward in an attempt to grab Briala with its hands, but losing a limb had considerably slowed it down, and she was able to slide out of the way, under the belly of the beast. As she did so, she noticed the tip of one of her arrows sticking out of the varterral’s throat. Unfortunately, the act of sliding across the floor sent the arrows in her quiver everywhere, and with her underneath the varterral, it decided the best course of action was to attempt to crush her.

The varterral pounded at the ground, breaking several arrows and scattering the rest with the vibrations. Briala rolled out of the way of its legs, and over to where Ethena stood, who continued to shoot into its side. It seemed Ethena’s magic arrows were actually leaving marks on the creature, and Briala recalled how much damage the Dalish elf Mihris was able to do with her spells.

“It’s resistant to physical attacks, but susceptible to magic,” she said aloud, coming to the realization. “Ethena, aim for its throat! One of my arrows pierced right through!”

“Distract it for me,” she called in return, before blasting the varterral with another stunning attack and running to the other side of it. Briala picked an arrow off the ground and aimed for the open wound where its leg had been, as Ethena did before. But the varterral swerved just as she released, sending the arrow into the fleshy webbing underneath instead. Still, she succeeded in her goal; the varterral turned away from Ethena and towards Briala. It reared back its head, and she leaped to the left just as it spat another string of acid.

While Briala continued to shoot at the varterral from its right, Ethena moved in from its left. She held her draw far longer than one should, and Briala was about to question just what she was doing, when she realized the tip of her conjured arrow began to glow even brighter. Ethena held and held, circling in closer, but couldn’t get a good enough opening. Briala knew what she needed to do, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.

         

Briala slid back to the underside of the varterral, where she had just narrowly escaped from. Sure enough, it raised its remaining front leg, ready to pulverize her. Briala held her breath, remembering Celene’s hesitation when she had put herself in the exact same position before. The back legs were wide open. They were _wide open_ to take out and she hesitated. She hesitated and Briala nearly died.

But Ethena didn’t hesitate. Instead of shooting that special arrow at its throat, she switched her target from the varterral’s neck to the mid-joint of the exposed inner right back leg. The arrow made a crackling noise upon meeting its mark, and the leg snapped, sending the varterral tumbling down. Without any support on its right side, it failed to get up. It resorted to clawing at Briala, but she scurried out of the way, and Ethena sent a new arrow right where Briala pointed out the vulnerability. The varterral spasmed, then stilled.

 

Briala broke the moment of shocked silence between them, her breath still ragged. “I can’t believe we killed it.”

“I can’t believe you came back for me…” Ethena’s words were slow and quiet, as if saying them was just as astonishing.

“Speaking of which,” said Briala, “Please tell me you had a good reason for running straight to your death?”

“Depends on what you call a good reason.” Ethena reached into one of the pockets on her belt, and pulled out a ratty stuffed rabbit.

“ _You risked your life for a toy bunny?_ ”

“I risked my life for _Sulan’s_ toy bunny,” she corrected. “He gave it to me for protection against…” she chuckled a little embarrassingly, “against nightmares. I said I’d bring it back to him.”

“You might want to leave out the part where you fought off a varterral to do so.”

“Hmm,” she nodded in agreement. Briala still wasn’t sure what to make of it.

 

The two collected what arrows they could, and replenished the quiver. Most of them were indeed broken, but better to bring back some than none.

After they climbed out of the cavern, and Ethena drank another lyrium potion—much slower than before—she sighed.

“That’s three times you’ve saved my life now. I’m not sure how I can repay you.”

“Well, you’ll probably get your chance when we catch up to the others,” Briala muttered, scanning ahead to see if they were at all in view, but it was not so. They had a decent head start, but would be slowed from carrying the eluvian. With a good pace, they shouldn’t have much trouble reaching them, she determined. “Mina will likely try to kill me when we reach them.”

“Why’s that?”

“The passphrase to the eluvian,” said Briala, “It’s _Fen’Harel enansal_.”

Ethena raised her eyebrows and blinked rapidly. Then a smile crawled across her face, and she threw her head back in laughter.


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurélie shares a great deal of her backstory. Mina does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking a particularly long time with this one; I spent a lot of time reading and asking for advice on writing Aurélie's piece. It is also the part I am most interested in hearing constructive criticism in, if you have it. (However any comments at all are always great motivation and much appreciated!)
> 
> I also want to give a warning of an indirect mention of rape in this chapter. I do not plan on sugar-coating what shit the chevaliers in Orlais are, but do not expect anything actually explicit.

Aurélie was not inexperienced in long carriage rides, but that never seemed to make them any less uncomfortable. Even with Celene sparing no expense for luxury, velvet cushions and gold trimmed panels did little to help with the rocking and bumping from the road, and pattering noise from the rainfall. Needless to say, her trip to Montfort was not a restful one.

She wished she could have stayed in Val Royeaux with Celene; she wanted to be there when the Empress broke the news that Gaspard had resumed war. Of course at the time Aurélie left, Celene was still working on her speech, in between planning for the annual Spring Fête she demanded would still take place. She did not plan on staying in Montfort; perhaps Celene would wait until her return. Aurélie understood the necessity for conducting business in person, though. Letters could _so easily_ be intercepted nowadays.

 

The Orlesian countryside was always contrasting to its major cities. There was so much vineyard, so much farmland, and so much _nothing_. Indeed, the people who lived in the kilometers of rural land between real towns and cities might as well have been from another country entirely; they cared nothing for the Game, or even who sat on the throne, so long as their taxes stayed at an acceptable level. They only cared for the growth of their crops, and fending off bandits.

To see Montfort’s stone walls earned a sigh of relief, even as quaint as they were in comparison to Val Royeaux. And peeking over the top was a tall building with wyvern-headed gargoyles; the feature she was told to look for in her new acquaintance’s instructed meeting space.

Aurélie’s feet hit the ground before the carriage even came to a complete halt outside the city gates, where the stables rested. Mud splashed up around the edge of her black leathers, the ground soaked from the downpour. Between stepping out under the sky and pulling her hood up, her reddish blonde hair was already drenched and plastered to her face. The top half of her face was protected by a gold and violet painted mask, marking her affiliation with the Valmont family, today. Ideally she would never have to change that affiliation ever again, soon.

“You best find lodgings for the night, my lady,” her carriage driver called out over the sound of the heavy weather. As he wore no mask, only his overly sized hat offered protection, and it ended up creating something of a waterfall over his sight. “No way are we leaving until the ground hardens up.”

Aurélie sighed, but understood. Better to wait than to wind up stuck in in a ditch. “You should do the same,” she suggested. “The Empress will compensate for the cost.” The driver’s shoulders raised slightly, a motion Aurélie read as pleasantly surprised. He nodded his head, more water dripping down in front of him.

“I’ll arrange rooms for both of us at the tavern, then. Right after I settle the horses.” They exchanged nods, and with a lurch, the carriage shuddered forward, towards the stables.

 

Aurélie watched her surroundings carefully as she approached the building. She knocked on the front door and waited for it to open. Instead, a bronze key slid out from underneath and bounced off her boot. She picked it up and looked it over; it had the word ‘cellar’ scratched into the side. She spun her head around again, and with no sign of any prying eyes, she went around the side of the house in search of a cellar door.

She found it in the alley between the house and the city’s wall; a small wooden hatch door under lock and key. Aurélie popped the key in and sure enough, the lock clicked free. She unhatched the door and pulled it up, revealing a much nicer stairwell than the half-rotted wood let on. Aurélie stepped into the stairwell and closed the cellar door behind her.

 

At the end of the stairs was a second door, with a coatrack mounted to the wall next to it and mat in front that read “please remove footwear.” She was confused until the door opened in front of her, revealing what was less like a cellar and more like a lounge room, with a brilliant red carpet, matching drapes with gold trim, and complimentary dark wood furniture. The room was well lit with a mixture of glowstones and candles, giving off a homey atmosphere, but it was so clean it was hard to believe anyone even stepped foot in it.

 

With a name like _“le Mage du Sang,”_ Aurélie was expecting, well, someone far scarier looking than the man who greeted her. (She knew he was not really a blood mage, but anyone who took that as a nickname, well…) He was of Rivaini descent, with very dark skin, and salt and pepper hair pulled back into neatly formed cornrows. His smile seemed to light up his entire face. She saw no mal-intent in them, but there was a spark of… superiority? Something that said he thought of himself above the rest. Something that said he knew exactly who he was, and was proud of it. She wondered what that must have felt like, not knowing herself. Aurélie was a bard. She was a service, not a person.

 

“You must be Aurélie,” he said in a honeyed voice, stepping aside and motioning for her to come in. His fancy formal attire swished with the movement.

“I am. And what should I address you as?” She asked while unfastening the many buckles on her boots. “ _Le Mage du Sang_ is a bit of a mouthful, after all.”

He thought about it for a moment, scratching is cleanly shaved chin. “Well then. I suppose _Ser Mage_ is acceptable, if you can’t be bothered.”

“To be honest, Ser Mage,” Aurélie set her boots up against the wall and glided into his lounge, “I am a bit uncertain of the necessity of your services. The Empress tells me you are an expert at heraldry and legality, able to give noble blood to anyone.”

“As the name might suggest,” he nodded playfully.

“Well, I happen to hold quite the talent for forgery myself, Ser Mage,” she challenged. “I would not be here if not for my love’s insistence. So,” Aurélie took a seat on his chesterfield, ignoring the pained look he gave over her muddy leathers, “What is it exactly that makes you so special at this?”

Ser Mage’s grimace turned into a grin, seeming to take her contest as a compliment rather than insult. Aurélie had to admit, that did somewhat ease her concern. Unless of course, he just turned out to be an overconfident bat. “Our Empress, your, ah, lover… She isn’t just paying me to forge you noble lineage; that I have already taken care of. When you leave here, you will leave unarguably as a _du Paraquette_ ; a recently renewed noble line, one that won’t pose much questions to being with. But oh no, that is only part of the unique service I offer.” He sat down on the chair across from her, and folded his hands neatly in his lap. “I will also see that any and all records of your true past erased. Which is why I prefer to meet with patrons face to face.”

 

Ser Mage leaned over to pick up the writing board on the table in front of them, and dipped his quill in the inkwell next to it. “So tell me, Aurélie, who are you?”

“Excuse me?” Who was she? She was Celene’s bard. Celene’s lover. Did she not already say as much?

“Let’s start with the basics. What name were you born with?” Aurélie blinked rapidly in surprise. She was not expecting this. She did not like not expecting things. “I assume Aurélie was not your birth name, given your admitted employment?”

“I fail to see how that matters,” she said, feeling every muscle in her body tense up thinking about it. She tried to remember the last time she was asked such a thing. Her bardmaster never did. She understood it did not matter who Aurélie was, only what skills she had to offer. She was a service, not a person. “I was nobody, I doubt there are any records of me at all.”

“Even elven births are _supposed_ to be recorded for population records,” Ser Mage shook his head. “You might be surprised by all that I can uncover, given the information. Legal forgery won’t do you much good if some upstart or another does the same digging I will.”

Aurélie sighed. Had she known this arrangement was going to lead to a complete stranger looking into her past, she might have put up more resistance to agreeing to see him. But she had come all this way now, and doubted Celene would be pleased if she did so just to walk out on him. And so, she hesitantly relented. “My mother gave me the name _Élie_. However, from the age of five I went by _Catherine_ , so if you’re going to look into one name, you best look for that one as well.”

It was Ser Mage’s turn to be surprised. He held the expression just a little too long, and it made Aurélie uncomfortable. “Is there a problem?”

This seemed to snap him out of it. “Problem? Oh no, I just, I never would have guessed…”

The discomfort increased. “I assume someone with as much notoriety as yourself is familiar with the Black Emporium, in the Free Marches?” He nodded his head. “Then I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of the Mirror of Transformation.” It was hard to forget all the good her bardmaster did for her. She had everything, and she gave Aurélie everything. At the age of twenty she told her of a magic mirror that could change your appearance, and asked if that was something she wanted. Aurélie recalled saying yes before she even finished the sentence. Of all the blood, sweat and tears, of all the magic, science and coin, of all the work she put into looking a way that made her feel good, the mirror was easily the best change she ever went through.

“So you used this magic mirror to become a woman?”

Aurélie was quick to correct this. “ _No_. I was a woman before the mirror and a woman after. Making my lips bigger and my jaw softer didn’t change that.” She was fortunate to grow up with a bardmaster who spared no expense supporting her every way she could; taking her to high-end tailors to purchase breasts to wear, offering any and every new scientific advancement or magical endeavor she heard of; some Aurélie accepted, some she declined. For someone who insisted Aurélie was a service and not a person, she had a surprising amount of empathy for her. Perhaps her bardmaster figured services could always be improved from self-confidence, wherever it derived from. It was hard to imagine she was so kind without reason.

What saddened her about these memories, was knowing that not every woman like herself shared them. Perhaps this was something she could work to change, once married to the Empress of Orlais.

 

Aurélie wasn’t sure if Ser Mage understood, but thankfully her answer seemed to satisfy him, and he decided to move on. “Alright then. I take it you don’t have a family name, given you’re here?” Aurélie shook her head. “Then I require as much information about your birth as possible. Where were you born?”

“In Val Royeaux, in a small house outside the alienage walls.”

“And what where your parents’ names?”

“My mother…” She thought about it for a second, “I believe her name was Dinah? She died when I was six years old; I don’t remember much about her at all. I have no idea who my father was; some chevalier who took advantage of his _Right Majeste_ over commoners.” It was hardly a unique story. She’d go as far to guess half the children born out of wedlock in Orlais were sired by chevaliers and their complete authority to do whatever they please. As a child all she understood was that her mother couldn’t bear to look at her too long. ‘You have his hair, his eyes, his face,’ she’d say. Looking back, sometimes she wondered if the reason her mother was so accepting of her wanting to be called Catherine was because she preferred her being less like the man who fathered her. But she preferred to think her mother was simply being a good, supportive mother who wanted her daughter to be happy.

Ser Mage’s questions continued. He asked of any living relatives, official schooling, membership to any organizations… It went on for some time, mostly with Aurélie confirming that she wasn’t lying when she said she was nobody. Perhaps that was why her bardmaster chose her. Perhaps she knew she would so successfully stay a nobody, allowing for complete molding by her employers. She was a bard; she provided a service, and there was no room for personhood in being a bard.

…But she wouldn’t just be a bard after this, would she? She would be a du Paraquette. Not just lover, but fiancée to Empress Celene Valmont.

What did that mean? What was she supposed to be, then?

 _Who_ was she supposed to be?

 

* * *

 

Ethena expected Mina and Asher to react harshly upon their return, by the way Briala spoke as they rushed to catch up. But when Briala said she would try to kill her, she didn’t think she was being serious. She did not expect Mina to immediately set her end of the mirror down and draw her spirit blade hilt on Briala’s neck, who remained as still as a statue.

“The passphrase,” Mina snarled, “It’s _Fen’Harel enansal_ , isn’t it?” Briala need not have answered, for as she said the words, a magnificent blue light flashed from the eluvian’s reflective surface, melting into what looked almost like the shimmering surface of still water. The shock caused Asher to stumble with his side of the mirror too, but caught it. He then gently set it down and backed away. Ethena couldn’t understand why; where he was afraid, she felt a pull, a call to go towards it, to touch it. It was mesmerising to look at!

“ _Fen’Harel enansal_ _,_ ” Briala repeated, and the light dimmed, the mirror reverting back to its regular state. Mina pressed her cut of Dahl’amythal wood harder against Briala’s skin.

 

Ethena tried to step forward and calm the situation, but the other elf had nothing of it. “Mina…“

“She knows the language. She knows how to wield daggers _and_ a bow. She claims to have fought a varterral before. She knows about eluvians, and apparently wasn’t bluffing when she said she could control them--and how? With the _Dread Wolf’s blessing._ All without any straight answers. What about her _isn’t_ suspicious at this point?” Mina looked back and forth between Asher and Ethena at either of her sides, then back at Briala.

“Calm down and think for a second,” Ethena urged, but Mina just threw her head back and laughed.

“That’s rich, coming from _you_.”

Ethena looked over to Asher for help, but he refused to meet her eyes, instead holding his lips tightly together in confliction. “Asher?”

“You have to admit, Mina has a point.”

“Oh, come on! If she was some kind of curse, why would she have saved me? _Twice?_ Why would she offer to help us against the incoming Orlesian attack?”

“You mean the attack _only_ _she_ claims to know about?” Mina challenged, “You’re seriously still ready to trust her, just like that?”

“Well I damn well trust one of our own people over the shemlen,” Ethena argued, taking another slow step forward, though still holding her hands up in a cautious manner. “Again, may I remind you, the shemlen who _would_ have _killed_ me!”

Mina feigned surprise. “What? You mean Orlesians don’t like elven mages? I never would have known.” Wrong thing. She said the wrong thing. “Oh, wait. That’s right, _I_ had to grow up among them. _I_ had to flee for my life when I got my magic, while you had a party thrown in your honour.” Ethena looked at Briala, who had lost Mina’s attention. Surely she could have grabbed at the weapon, push herself away, do something at this point? Why wasn’t she moving?

Mina continued to talk. “You don’t get it, Ethena. There is no way she would know all this. Elves aren’t allowed to carry weapons in the cities. The people of my alienage in Verchiel wouldn’t know which end of a dagger to stick someone with, let alone the shit she’s pulled. This isn’t about trusting the shemlen. I don’t need you to remind me not to trust them. This is about not trusting her, either!” Mina turned her head back to face Briala, but continued to address the other Dalish woman. “But fine. Let’s say this army is real, and not just made up as a reason to get into our good graces. We know the passphrase now. Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill her where she stands.”

Ethena drew her bow grip, and felt the energy inside it crackle, ready for the magic limbs to spring from the wood. “You hurt her, and I’ll hurt you. How’s that for reason?” Asher immediately held his hands up in a surrendering fashion, but Mina only tightened her grip. “Do I need to remind you—”

“It’s okay, Ethena,” Briala said, still remarkably and inexplicably calm about having a weapon to her throat. She looked Mina dead in the eyes and said, “She’s not going to kill me.”

“And what makes you think that?” Mina raised an eyebrow.

“When you showed off your magical ability earlier, the blade ignited from the opposite end of the hilt you currently have pressed to my skin. Given your demonstrated skill, I doubt it was simply an accident, which means you are purposely holding it in such a way. Why would you do that, if not to only intimidate me rather than actually do me harm?” Mina and Asher’s faces were in a state of shock, and Ethena felt her own mirror them. Forget the unexplained knowledge and skill in a fight. For the first time, she felt a little afraid of the city elf herself.

 

When there was no response, Briala continued. “When Clan Virnehn found me, they looked at me with distaste. I was nothing but _a flat-ear_ to them all, barely less an outsider than the humans I travelled with,” she explained. “I was not sure what to expect from your clan, but it certainly was not the immediate acceptance I received.

“Nonetheless, I have been waiting for this to change, and I will still wait. Because the most important thing I’ve learned from the Orlesian court, is the only person I can trust is _me_.” Ethena found herself taken back from this statement. “Would you like to know the second most important thing I learned?”

“What?” Asher prompted.

“I learned a person can give a surprising amount of their intentions and thoughts away with what can be read on their face. And you all,” she darted her eyes from one to another, “You’re so _free_ with your faces, it’s like you don’t try to hide anything at all. I suppose you’d have no reason to.” Briala rested her gaze back at Mina, whose turn it was to remain stiff. “And you, Mina, you’re not angry. You act like it, but really, you’re just scared. And it’s so much easier to take it out on me than deal with that, isn’t it?”

It was Mina’s turn to be still. When Briala lifted her hands to guide Mina’s arm down, lowering her spirit blade, she let her. “What am I scared of, then?” The words were challenging. Her voice was not.

“Given you just said you’re from Verchiel, I don’t think I have to guess.”

After a moment, Mina squeezed her face tight, and much to Ethena’s surprise, the young woman fell to her knees with tears flowing freely. She let her weapon fall out of her hand and began furiously hiding her face, not wanting them to see. Ethena let her magic reside, and tucked her spirit bow back away. Mina may not have been there for her when she had… a moment… but she wasn’t about to do the same. She squatted next to Mina and placed a hand on her back. Asher hesitantly stepped forward as well, but did not seem to know what to do, only looking down at her awkwardly. “Come now, Mina,” was all he said.

“It’s not real,” she cried between frantic sniffs, “They’re not coming. The _chevaliers_. _Him_ … They’re not really coming…”

“They are,” Briala confirmed.

There was an endless list of questions Ethena wanted to ask, but knew it was not the time nor place. If Mina wasn’t up to sharing her past in the near twenty years she knew her, she certainly wouldn’t now. Finally Briala joined them on the ground, but remained at a distance. Ethena couldn’t help but look at her eyes—had they always been so intense, or did she only now notice? Just how much _could_ Briala unravel about a person?

 

“We’ll stick to the original plan,” Asher announced decidedly, bringing Ethena’s spiralling nervous thoughts back on track. His head was tilted to the sky. “The sun should be up soon. We can take a break for food now and give thanks after, when it does.” Remembering Briala was among them, he looked to her and explained, “It is the sun and land that gave birth to Elgar’nan long ago. Our clan gives thanks to the sun for a new day of life when he rises… You are free to join us, if that is your wish.”

Briala nodded, thoughtfully. “I would love to.”

 

It did not take long for Asher and Ethena to set up a quick fire, while Mina sat cured up in a ball and Briala went to fill all their water from a stream they passed. When she returned, the group enjoyed a light breakfast of bread and water. It was quiet, everyone too busy eating to speak.

Some mornings it was harder to give thanks for the life around them than others, and it had not been easy lately. Truthfully, Ethena had been less than present in her thoughts and prayers to the Creators ever since returning from the human village. But there was something about this morning that made it easier. Perhaps it was the lack of large company, but watching the sun rise, she felt a true connection for the first time in a while. She was sure to ask for Sulan’s wellbeing.

Briala followed along quite well.

 

The first words Mina spoke since her breakdown was ordering Ethena and Briala to carry the eluvian for a while, as she and Asher had before they all reunited. They agreed, and allowed the other two to take the lead up front. Well, allowed was perhaps too light a word; it was rather difficult to keep up when they had to adjust how they carried the giant mirror to go up and down over the uneven ground, and in and out between the tightly grown trees.

With the two now lagging behind with the weight of the mirror, Ethena took the opportunity to quietly ask Briala a question. “If you knew Mina wasn’t going to really hurt you, why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I had to think about my words first,” was her simple answer.

Ethena found herself reflecting on what Briala had said about fearing everyone around her, never trusting anyone. She had grown up fearing herself, and the demonic scars in her head. She could hardly imagine having to also worry about those around you, all the time. But perhaps that explained why Briala was so… careful. With everything. It was almost amusing; here she was with recklessness reaching dangerous proportions at times, and there was Briala, who apparently even took the time to think about everything before she spoke… And was so perceptive of her surroundings that she could pick up the orientation of a piece of wood.

“You really are dangerous,” she said. It wasn’t harsh, just a statement.

Briala’s response matched. “So are you.” It wasn’t harsh either. Almost complimentary, even. Also true.

“Let’s hope we’re both dangerous enough to stop the Orlesians, then.”

“Let’s.”


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Briala and co return with the eluvain and prepare to head for Suledin Keep.  
> Gaspard arrives at Sahrnia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be quite honest, I think this is my favourite chapter to date... I guess I just especially like writing about lore stuff for Clan Aradin.

 

 

Ethena was the only one who would talk to Briala, and only when the other two couldn’t hear. Though Asher did give her some sort of oil for her lips when he noticed how cracked they were from the cold. It made for a long trip back, even more elongated by how horribly exhausted she was. She supposed her body couldn’t handle talking anyway, with her ragged breaths with every push to move her legs forward, fighting the numbing pain. When not carrying the eluvian, she let her arms dangle limply at her side. All she could do was pray they would make it back without trouble, as she didn’t know if she had it in her for a fight. In contrast, Briala noticed that the three Dalish elves did not show much sign of fatigue at all. She assumed they were more used to long treks through the woods than she was.

 

Her prayers were answered, and the four elves reached the river-side Dalish campsite by mid-day. Briala very well near collapsed at the sight of it. They made it, with the eluvian intact.

The reaction to their arrival was instant. They barely took three steps out of the woods before being surrounded by elves of all ages, from excited children jumping up and down to curious adults looking at the mirror with wonderment. Briala saw Ethena’s mother run up to her, arms wide open, and they hugged. Asher didn’t even get the chance to set down the eluvian before being tackled by a woman nearly twice his height with frantic kisses, and a young girl she guessed to be a daughter clinging to his coat. Mina had disappeared before she knew it, leaving just Briala standing next to the mirror alone.

 

Briala turned her attention to the camp around her. It looked so much larger than before, with everything half packed away. All the structures were stripped of their covers, leaving just the bare wooden frames standing. Only the med tent was still intact. The elves that didn’t rush up to greet them were busy sorting things away into baskets and boxes, and loading them onto the aravels.

“But Mamae, we _just_ got here,” Briala heard a little boy say over the chatter around her. He had a large wooden rod over his shoulders with a bucket of water on each end, and his mother next to him carrying the same. “Why are we going to summer camp if the leaves haven’t budded yet?”

“We’re not going to a summer site,” the mother explained.

“Are we going back to the caves?”

“We’re going someplace new. Now straighten your back or you’ll spill the water.” The boy did as she said and they kept walking.

Briala was impressed with how quickly the Dalish were packing things up. It gave her more faith that their plan would work.

 

The crowd around the arriving party quieted when Hahren Ghilina stepped forward. She too looked over the eluvian, as if expecting it to do something just by staring at it.

“It’s activated by a passphrase,” Briala explained, brushing her hand up against the solid reflective surface. She discreetly looked at Asher and Ethena, who kept their mouths firmly shut about what that passphrase was. “When you’re ready, I will open the way.”

Ghilina nodded. “The aravels are almost ready. All the wheels have been attached from last travelling on the water. Now the halla need to be secured. Take time to rest your body. Then, if you will, show us this _door_ in action.” Even the old woman’s steady voice held a degree of excitement, but Briala was thankful to hear her suggestion to rest.

 

Most of the gathering dissipated, with only a few left clamoring over the mirror. Ethena walked off with her mother towards the med tent, speaking through hand movements as before. Briala wasn’t quite sure what to do. She saw that the only place left to sit other than on the ground was on the long log benches around the large fire pit in the centre of camp. While she felt a little awkward to lie down while everyone around her was busy working, she reminded herself that she did just walk for a day and a half, with a varterral fight in the middle to keep things interesting. Briala stiffly unrolled herself onto one of the logs. She looked up at the sky, clear and vibrant blue in colour, and let her muscles tingle back to life after being driven so hard.

 

After several minutes passed, Briala rolled over onto her side, and pushed herself up into a sitting position. She looked around again, wondering where Ethena went. To the med tent to see her nephew, perhaps?

A young girl with two long braids walked past her carrying a gnarly looking staff, and Briala called out to her. “Excuse me,” she said, “Do you know where Ethena is?” The teen turned around and Briala was shocked to recognize the face. “Hanin?”

“I think she went to see her nephew,” Hanin confirmed Briala’s guess, unfazed by her surprise. “Hey, I know you’re really busy watching the clouds and all, but you can follow me if you want. I’ve gotta deconstruct the weir.”

Briala just nodded her head.

 

“I want to apologize,” Briala said slowly, “I thought you were a boy when we first met.”

“I was.”

“…Pardon?”

“I was a guy. Now I’m a girl. _Oh_ ,” Hanin softly hit herself on the side of the head, “I forget sometimes you city-born can be weird about gender.” Now Briala was very curious. “I don’t feel like or have the time to give a lesson, so the short version is, I’m just way too powerful for permanence. I’m _rev'ash;_ sometimes I’m _ashi_ , sometimes I’m _ashe_ , and sometimes I’m _asha_. And as the flowery stitched skirt might have given away, today I feel very _asha_.”

“But when we first met you were…”

“ _Ashi_.”

“How long will you be a girl?” She asked, hoping these questions were okay. Hanin didn’t show any signs of annoyance as they walked.

“Until I wake up feeling otherwise.”

“Can I ask what you were when you were born?”

“Why does it matter?” She asked. _Now_ there was a hint of impatience.

Briala thought for a moment, and shook her head. “It doesn’t. Never mind.” This seemed to please the girl, whole gave a short-second smile. Briala knew people who didn’t feel like a man or a woman; her scout Noam came to mind. But she couldn’t recall meeting anyone who changed between genders, until now—though she supposed in all likeliness she probably did, just without realizing. Hanin regarded this as completely normal, and she found herself liking the idea that it was. She remembered how quickly the older women preparing supper the night before accepted her exclusive interest in women, too. Orlais was no Tevinter, but to many it was still seen as a quirk of character; an _abnormal_ thing. Seeing how _normal_ these things were in Dalish eyes made Briala realize how far Orlesian society could still grow. There were some parts of elven culture that hurt more than others to see her city brothers and sisters loose, and now this was definitely in the top part of the list.

No, _loose_ wasn’t the right word. Taken. Stolen. But if they were taught prejudice, they could be taught otherwise.

 

Briala followed Hanin down the river quite a ways past the beautiful bridge, until the camp was a distant sight and out of earshot. She stopped when they came to a strange arrangement of rocks and sticks in the river, forming a V shape.

“We usually don’t set up weirs until crops start ripening in Kingsway,” Hanin explained, dipping her staff down to point at the rocks, “but when we emerged from our winter encampment in the caves between the human towns Lacville and Salmont, we were met with red lyrium everywhere. So we travelled down the river to our camp by Port d'Argent, only to find the same thing; the earth littered with the same crystals the humans deemed too dangerous to keep near _them_. That’s when most of our people fell ill; we didn’t discover the fish and deer were just as sick as the land until after consuming it. We travelled again and came here, where still our usual hunting grounds are poisoned. Needless to say, we were desperate for any food we could get.”

“But the fish from this part of the river are fine, right?” Briala asked, remember eating that very fish the day before.

“As far as we can tell, at least.” It was not as assuring as either of them would have liked. “But,” Hanin smiled, “since we’ll either be holding up in Suledin Keep or die trying, there’s no need to disrupt the fish any further here.”

 

Briala watched as Hanin slammed her staff down on the ground, and a glowing green light ignited in the cracks of the old wood that instantly reminded her of her old hahren Felassan’s magic. In front of her, the rocks and sticks lifted out of the water, and followed Hanin’s hand movement over onto the river bank, where they fell back down.

“…What exactly did you need me to come for?” Briala asked in amazement over the great display of power.

“Because it’s fun to show off,” Hanin shrugged, before adding, “ _and_ because I’m not allowed to leave the clan without company.”

“Because you’re the Keeper.”

“Because they’re overprotective grumps who don’t understand I can only spend so much time watching myself fail at saving the sick over and over again.” Her response was incredibly depressing in an unsuited casual tone. Hanin reached for the ends of her braids and rub the hair between her fingers, something Briala recalled her doing before when uneasy. She looked closely at Hanin’s face. Her eyes had a hollowness to them unsuited for someone so young.

“How long have you been the Keeper?”

“A couple months, now. Both Keeper Vuninlen and our First were among the earliest to die from the red sickness.”

“Why didn’t someone more experienced become Keeper?” This girl was so clearly not ready for the job that fell to her shoulders.

“You mean someone _older?_ ” Hanin smirked, easily gathering what she truly meant. “We have other mages, sure, but _I_ was Second. I was the only one with any qualification at all for the position, even if I’m still learning.”

“Then no offence Hanin, but I can understand why the clan wants to keep you safe.”

“Right, right.” Hanin waved her off, and the two began walking back to the camp.

 

Briala and Hanin were back at the camp for no more than three seconds before Ethena came barging up to them, her hands forming fists.

“Hanin!” she called. “I need you as witness!”

“You’re not serious. You’re serious?”

“Briala,” Ethena continued, now looking at her, “You can be the second—Wait, no, you can’t. _Vhenallin_ don’t count. _Fenedhis_ …” Hanin tried to interrupt her, but the woman kept talking to herself as she paced back and forth in front of them. “I can’t ask my mother as she is direct blood. Wait, Nahum! Hanin, where is my step-father?” Hanin opened her mouth to answer, but Ethena seemed to spot Nahum over their shoulders, judging by her eyes. “Wait right here!” Just as fast as she approached them, she dashed off again.

Briala turned around to see Nahum struggling to load a large crate onto an aravel. Ethena swiped the box out of his arms and appeared to scold him for attempting to carry something so heavy. Heavy for him, at least. Ethena seemed to hold the large box with no issue, while Nahum rubbed at his back. Briala wondered what her arms might have been like, under that thick coat she wore.

“I’d tell you she’s taken, but it sounds like that won’t be the case much longer,” Hanin said. Briala looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “You were staring. Like, really obviously.”

She didn’t bother arguing. “What do you mean by ‘won’t be the case much longer’?”

“I mean she she’s either proposing a bond to someone or severing one. And since she’s already in a bond, sounds like it’s the second.” Hanin sighed dramatically, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “June’s hammer, she has the worst timing...”

Briala was incredibly confused now, though it seemed she would not have to be much longer. Ethena returned to them, dragging the man who Briala remembered calling her a flat-ear at the campfire by the arm, _Sav_ , and Nahum trailing behind, chewing on his nails.

 

“Eth, you’re being ridiculous,” Sav said. “You’re just in one of your moods again!”

“Did you think I was _lying_ when I said we’re through?”

“Well you haven’t killed me yet, so you were bluffing a little,” he challenged, then winced as she tightened her grip on his arm.

“Ethena, please,” Nahum tried to calm her, “this is a serious matter. Think about what you’re doing…”

“I am thinking,” she scowled, before shoving Sav forward and he fell onto his hands and knees. The man quickly popped back off the ground and brushed himself over.

“There isn’t a sole in this clan that’ll put up with you like I do,” Sav threatened her. “You break this bond, and you’ll be alone for the rest of your life!” Briala herself felt angry by this.

His words did not seem to effect Ethena in the slightest. She loosened her scarf and dug down under it, then with the snap of a leather cord, ripped off a small wooden amulet from around her neck. Then she recited something Briala could only partially translate. “ _Var lath halam. Vir tel'sumeil, sahlin la melanada._ Go fuck yourself, because I will no longer.” Ethena threw the amulet to the ground and stomped down on it. Briala looked up at Sav, expecting sorrow or regret. Instead, he just looked angry. Then he too pulled at a cord around his neck, revealing a matching amulet to Ethena’s. He lifted it over his head and threw it to the ground as well, then haughtily walked away without a word. Ethena’s shoulders lowered, and she heaved a sigh with more tiredness from whatever just happened than she showed at all through their trek.

 

“Make sure his shit isn’t with ours when we unpack,” Ethena said to Nahum. “I don’t care where he sleeps, as long as it’s nowhere near me, you, mother or Sulan.” After another sigh, she looked up at Briala. “Hahren Ghilina said we’re ready for you to do your thing with the eluvian, by the way.” Briala just nodded, still a little unsure of what all just occurred.

“Can I see?” Hanin asked excitedly.

“Yes.” This earned Briala a gigantic smile that spread across Hanin’s face. She continued, “Although you probably shouldn’t stay with the sick; in my experience, mages tend to risk more attraction to some of the more dangerous parts of The Vir’bora than most.”

“Got it,” she nodded.

 

Indeed, Clan Aradin looked ready to move out. Halla were roped to the aravels packed to the brim, while others roamed freely with decorative fabric sheets over their backs. Briala caught sight of Mina stroking the head of one, before gracefully lifting herself onto it. She knew that the Dalish rode halla like the ancient elves, but always assumed it would be more like riding a horse, with saddles and reins. Somehow this looked so much more personal.

The med tent was dismantled now, with the sick able to walk standing on their feet wrapped in blankets, hovering next to a wagon filled with those still confined to stretchers. Briala approached one of the halla attached to the wagon. All the artwork she’d seen, the descriptions she’d heard, they did not do such enchanting creatures justice. She reached up to pet one of the halla roped to the wagon as she witnessed Mina do, only for the halla to pull its head away with a snort, then swing back and shove her, causing Briala to fall backwards to the ground on her behind. From behind her, she heard the northern island elf laugh.

“Nice to see you’re not a natural at everything,” Mina called, drawing attention to many others of the clan around. There were a few more giggles, but none quite as boisterous as Mina. Briala clenched her teeth, feeling embarrassed, but held her tongue. She made a mental note to learn how to ride one of those creatures before returning to the city.

 

Hahren Ghilina and another hahren stood beside the eluvian, resting up against a large tree in front of the wagon. Briala gave a nervous smile. “I need some space to open the door, if you will?” Better to limit those who knew the passphrase as much as possible. They both stepped back, as did the gathering crowd around them, far back enough for Briala to confidently whisper the words through mumbling lips out of their earshot. The familiar bright blue light ignited from the mirror, and there were several gasps from those watching intently. Briala touched its surface, sending ripples outwards like a stone hitting water. Her hand passed through, and then, so did she.

 

After a second for her sight to adjust, Briala found herself standing in a large open space that reminded her of a Tevinter bath house, albeit covered in overgrown vines in a strange pink hue, and an entire wall missing, leaving the space open to a rocky stairway that went down. The walls still standing had fully intact gold trim that still shined brightly, unlike the white walls themselves, looking hauntingly decrepit. Briala turned around to see the wall with the eluvian was flanked by the same dragon statues it had in its original resting place, and next to those statues, more eluvians, all in a pattern of statue, mirror, statue, mirror. She counted ten in total, some in shatters, but some active. She was curious to know where they led, though one at the far end gave off a horrible stench of rot. That one she could do without.

“Elgar’nan’s burning balls,” she heard Hanin say, popping out of the eluvian herself. She seemed to be frozen in mesmerisation, and when Hahren Ghilina passed through, she bumped right into the young girl. The two moved out of the way to make room for the next person.

“Fucking hell,” Ethena gasped.

“Language,” scolded Ghilina, prompting Ethena to just repeat the curse in elvhen. The older woman rolled her eyes.

“Come on, let’s bring the sick through. I can’t wait for Sulan to see this. This… This is _incredible_.” Ethena looked at Briala, “You’re incredible.”

         

They passed again through the mirror and did just that, guiding the wagon through the eluvian. Even those who were on the cots went wide eyed at the sight of the sky above them, of the rush that flooded the veins when entering The Vir’Bora. Those assisting them took cautious steps out onto the stairway, looking far and wide at their surroundings, some of them vibrating with incredulity.

Briala noticed that Ethena’s nephew was among those walking. Indeed, he even looked to be in better shape than before, the veins that decorated his skin slightly faded, and his unkempt hair looking less flat. While she still kept her distance, as did all those without protective gear with the ill, she felt the urge to introduce herself, having only seen him from afar before.

“You’re Sulan, aren’t you,” she said, smiling at the young boy. He looked at her in confusion, puckering his lips in deep thought. While his eyes still had red rings around them, their umber brown colour seemed clear and coherent.

Ethena, who was wearing a pair of the protected gloves, saw Briala approach him and joined the two. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “This is Briala, I just told you about her. She helped me rescue Bunny.” Upon hearing this, Sulan shuffled the blanket around him in his grip in order to reveal the stuffed toy that Ethena had risked her life to retrieve from the varterral’s ruin.

“I’m pretty sure Bunny saved _you_ ,” he corrected her.

“Maybe so,” Ethena smiled. There was a strange change in her eyes from normal; they were still the same pitch black as before, and yet somehow felt warm instead of cold when Briala looked into him. This child was hers. Maybe not by birth, but by raising.

“I’m glad to see you’re looking better, Sulan. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she nodded to him, and he giggled at her formality.

Ethena guided him to the far right wall, where he sat down next to a few others who looked like they were on the mend. It was encouraging to see that perhaps not everyone really was doomed to die from red lyrium. She hoped Hanin saw this, too.

 

With the sick settled into the abandoned bath house on one end, and many healthy elves on the other, the rest returned to the waking world, some with reluctance. They loaded the eluvian onto a cart that trailed behind one of the larger aravels. Briala was invited onto the same aravel that Ethena and her parents were perched on, sitting among packed crates, barrels and baskets of goods. She watched Nahum pull a handful of tree moss out from his pocket, and sprinkled it around them. Upon seeing Briala watching, he explained it was to ask for Sylaise’s favour in blessing their journey.

Before Briala knew it, without so much as a command, the halla broke into a run and the aravels lurched forward. There was no other way to describe the feeling than magical. They crossed the bridge, one after another, and practically flew down along the side of the river, towards Suledin Keep.

 

* * *

 

When the wall archer came running through town proclaiming an army was approaching, Ser Harland could hardly believe it. Finally it seemed the noble woman Poulin’s letters were worth something, and the Inquisition was here to be rid of those damned elves. And he wanted to be a part of it. It may have been Mayor Mayer’s coin that brought him to Sahrnia, but after the Dalish witch escaped him, thanks to that _Briala_ who injured his sword arm, it was personal.

Harland got up off his bench in front of the Andraste statue and went to retrieve the vial of blood kept on the Mayor’s desk, awaiting the touch of magic to complete the phylactery’s creation. Harland had concerns that the scraped off blood from his blade would not be enough to track the Dalish, but he must have slashed her incredibly deep, for he had no trouble filling up the small glass vial. It was interesting, he mused, to see how the Dalish bled like any other creature.

 

With the glass vial in hand, he went to Sarhnia’s gate to greet the Inquisition. Except it wasn’t the Inquisition. Instead, Orlesian banners stood out from the crowed of soldiers in Orlesian and chevalier armour. At their head stood a tall, broad-shouldered man heavily cladded in the same chevalier silverite, but enameled with gold and emerald. Gaspard de Chalons. The rightful ruler of Orlais. Was _here_. In Sahrnia.

 

The Grand Duke was talking with the Mayor, who looked less interested in the conversation and more in his pipe, as usual. Harland was a little nervous to approach such a glorious figure, but knew that if he were to earn his respect, he would have to do so with the intensity of a soldier.

“If you’re here to solve our Dalish problem, I can tell you exactly where they are,” he announced, cutting right to the chase. Both the Mayor and Grand Duke turned their heads. “Or rather, I can with the help of a mage.”

“Ah, right,” said Mayor Mayer. “I hired this Templar to interrogate a captured elf. Of course that was before he let her _escape_.”

“No thanks to you,” Harland snapped, “You’re the one who let that Marquise waltz right in. What did you think would happen?”

“Marquise?” Gaspard asked, his eyebrows peaking above his mask.

“That elf who freed the prisoner, her name was Briala. She’s the Marquise of the Dales, no?”

“In name, at least,” Gaspard chortled, stepping away from the Mayor and up to Harland, who suddenly felt much shorter.

“You’re a Templar.”

Harland lifted his chin proudly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“And that vial,” he looked down at it in Harland’s hand, “that contains blood of one of a Dalish mage?”

“It does, taken from my sword after the fight before the two fled.”

“Nanette!” the Grand Duke called out, and from the sea of silver soldiers popped out a tiny woman in mage robes with the insignia of the White Spire on her breast. She looked to be in her early to mid-forties, with mousy brown hair and a paled face. A mage Loyalist, one who knew her place. The Grand Duke must have recruited her for his war party.

The mage, Nanette, joined the four men and opened her hand up for Harland to drop the phylactery into, recognizing it immediately. Looking back up at Gaspard once more, he did so, and Nanette wrapped her bony hands around the vial. Harland had seen the creation of a phylactery before, of course, and used them to track down plenty of apostates in his day working for the Chantry. So when the mage cast her spell and the phylactery properly formed, he was surprised to see a feint glow emit from it.

“I take it that means something to you?” The Grand Duke inquired.

“It means it’s working,” Harland said, taking the vial back from the mage, who disappeared back into the crowd without a word. “And what’s interesting,” he continued, examining the pulsing glow grow just a tad brighter, even as they spoke, “is this means she’s not far. And getting closer, _strangely_ fast.”

The Grand Duke took this information and cupped his chin with his thumb and index finger, deep in thought. He turned around, and took a few steps back and forth. Then suddenly, he snapped his fingers in epiphany.

“The elven Keep up the hill. If I know that rabbit Briala, that’s where she’d send them.” Gaspard turned back around and met Harland with a wicked, wide grin. “And we’re going to meet them there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't properly express how much I would love to hear feedback from this one... Not only is it a great motivator as always, but I'm really curious to hear how people feel about the story so far, what I'm doing well and what I can possibly improve on, etc. <3


	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaspard finally gets his fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to preface this chapter with something important: I swear to you that this story will end in victory for Clan Aradin, and for all elves. But it'll be a rough road to get there, and this chapter is an extremely huge blow... one that was downright painful to write, no lie.

It did not take long for Gaspard’s troops to reach the elven keep, and upon doing so, he had to admit he was impressed with the fortifications for such an old and rundown structure. Obviously it had seen its fair share of Orlesian handiwork, but the base was so clearly elven in nature, what with the needlessly mazelike layout and animal statues everywhere. There were also remains of the Inquisition, the organization’s flag still hanging on the mast, for one. When this was done, perhaps he would have it replaced with a banner of his own.

Gaspard stood beneath said flag, on top of the tallest tower, while his troops waited for orders in the courtyard. Next to him was the young Templar lad, Harland, he said his name was. The phylactery hastily tied around his neck was emitting a stronger and stronger reddish glow. Even while peering through the spyglass he held, the Templar kept a straight, poised back.

“You of noble descent, boy?” Gaspard asked him. He was forced to raise his voice to be heard over the strong, whistling wind that seem to come out of nowhere that caused both his cape and the flag above to ripple and snap.

Harland was too wise to take his gaze away from the spyglass, answering while still scanning the area. “My father is Baron Aufondet Harland of Val Colline, Your Highness.”

“Older siblings?”

“Seven brothers and two sisters, Your Highness. No chance in inheriting a title for me.” Gaspard nearly choked hearing the number; he had but one sister, and she turned out to be enough trouble. He could hardly imagine nine. Maker’s breath.

“And so you joined the Templars. You seem a fine lad; why not enroll in the Academie des Chevaliers?”

“I wanted to do my part in defending our empire from mages, Your Highness.” Gaspard had to admit, he enjoyed the formality of constantly being addressed as such.

“A noble sentiment,” the Duke nodded, “And one we’ll see to today. The elf savages have some of the worst apostates I’ve ever encountered.”

“This one,” he gripped at the phylactery, “she’s not so dangerous. Pretty though, or at least she would be, but…” Harland couldn’t finish, and instead broke out into a chuckle, before explaining. “Her teeth, there’s this big gap right in the middle… I told her maybe a few punches to the mouth would straighten them, but as it turns out, not so much.”

“Never did care for elves, myself,” Gaspard shook his head, “it’s those giant eyes.” No matter what angle you looked at them, their faces always seemed so out of proportion. Like a prey animal’s, he thought.

 

“There,” the Templar said, pointing into the distance off slightly to the west. Gaspard followed his direction but couldn’t see anything.

“Give me the spyglass,” he ordered, and Harland handed it over. The metal was cold from the wind chill against his bare fingers.

Gaspard turned the glass into focus and saw what Harland saw; several of the Dalish landships, recognizable by their bright red sails and the halla that pulled them. Sure enough, they were heading right for the keep. But something was off.

“I thought there’d be more,” Harland voiced Gaspard’s own thoughts. This was hardly his first wild elf hunting trip. So many ships would suggest a much larger group, but of the visible heads, he could only count no more than fifteen, maybe sixteen.

That’s when he saw it. Stacked on top of the middle wagon was a large shiny surface, which upon closer focus confirmed it. “She found one of those damned mirrors.”

“Pardon, Your Highness?”

Gaspard didn’t answer, thinking for a moment. It was obvious that the bulk of the group had passed through the mirror. His initial thought was to destroy it, trapping them there. But for all he knew, they could simply escape through another one and go free. He realized they had to alter their ambush plan.

 

* * *

 

Briala had never felt so alive in her life.

 

Looking down at the ground as the aravels flew over it made her dizzy, but it wasn’t until they went through the thick patch of trees that true euphoria came over her. She could see the trees around her, smell the pine, but the aravels passed right through them, like they were ghosts. She felt tingly all over. It was hard to even think, and Ethena and her family seemed amused by her reaction. Either that, or they were laughing at her windblown hair whipping all over her face.

“I always wondered,” Ethena said, “if human carts were just strangely shaped aravels. I’m gathering that’s not the case.”

It took Briala a second to even find her voice. “Give or take a few kilometers per hour. And you know. The incorporeal magic.” At this all three Dalish elves laughed.

 

Before she knew it, the keep was in sight. It looked even bigger from afar, and made Briala realize she could not have possibly even seen a quarter of its entirety when she first appeared through the eluvian inside. It spanned the entire plateau it rested on, possibly going down deeper underneath. But as they got closer, she realized that a good portion of it was destroyed, and thus probably inaccessible. It was obvious that a great battle had taken place here, long ago. Briala recalled the story that Hanin told at the campfire, about the clan’s origins, and the fight for the highlands. It made reclaiming Suledin Keep for the elves seem all the more powerful.

 

The keep did not stay a distant sight for long. Soon the aravels glided past the nearby village, while keeping good distance of course, and pulled up to the gates left ajar. Several elves let out celebratory cheers as they slowed, and the halla pulled them all into the courtyard, the aravels aligning in a circle just as they did at the previous camp. As everyone was jumping off, Briala followed suit, but almost lost her footing when she hit the ground, still dizzy. She leaned up against the side of the wagon, and closed her eyes. They made it. And now they would have time to prepare for Gaspard’s incoming attack.

 

Briala brushed her hair out of her face, and took the cord at her wrist to tie it back in her familiar loose bun, as she looked around. A couple Dalish had already begun unloading their aravel, while most of the others helped steadily lower the eluvian onto the ground.

“Do you think the humans of that village saw us?” She heard someone ask.

“I doubt it; there’s not many there,” she reassured them, even though it wasn’t her they directed the question at. The elf flashed her a relieved smile all the same, before she made her way over to the eluvian.

 

Just as before, Briala requested they all back away while she mumbled the passphrase. Before anyone could even go through, an elf stepped out, looked around, and a wide grin grew on their face.

“It worked!”

“It worked,” Briala nodded.

As Hanin led the rest of the elves out, Briala felt someone clasp her shoulder. She instinctively jumped a bit, but saw that it was only Mina.

“You did good,” she said awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Briala responded in the same way. They stood at each other’s sides for a moment in silence, Mina rubbing the back of her neck and looking at anything other than Briala, before stepping away.

When the waggon pulled out of the eluvian and Hanin gave her a thumbs up, Briala whispered the words once again, closing the way into the Vir’bora. She looked over at Ethena and her family, with her parents looking like they desperately wanted to give Sulan a hug, and saw the other woman meet her eyes. She smiled, and Briala took a step towards them. But as she did, a war horn went off, and arrows came down on them all like deadly rain.

 

By some miracle that Briala could only surmise as Andruil’s intervention, she was not directly hit, instead only feeling an arrow graze her upper arm and whiz past her head. She didn’t have time to think, only instinctively go for the nearest cover, which was the aravel beside her, its halla all hit by the arrow assault. She crawled underneath it as another arrow barely missed her foot, and bumped into another elf who had the same idea.

The screams of the Dalish around her were soon deafened by the battle cries of human soldiers. Briala peeked out from under the aravel to see them poor out from the undercroft, with an array of swords, axes, maces and shields, and all baring the Chalons crest on their armour.

Gaspard was here. Somehow he was here, waiting for them.

_How?_

There was no time for answers. Braila first went to grab at her daggers, wishing she had a bow to take out some of the archers on the ramparts, when her wish was granted. The crying young elf next to her was gripping one tightly. She pulled it out of their hand, and then tugged at the quiver on their back. Realizing this, the elf shakily removed it, and she swung it around her own body. Briala took a deep breath, and crawled out from under the aravel, back into the fray.

 

She was about to fire an arrow at the first archer she saw, when she tripped over a body and instead sent it at the wall. Her breath was caught in her chest, and she held it there while collecting herself and drawing another arrow. This time it sank perfectly into her target’s chest, sending the archer falling backwards off the wall. But it also caught the attention of all those standing close, and they were quick to aim their bows at her. Briala ran back to take cover behind the aravel, but stopped short just before witnessing it go up in flames, and the arrows trained on her came down. It surely would have been her end, had Hahren Ghilina not placed a barrier around her not a moment too soon. Briala looked over at her, unable how to convey the gratitude deserved, but Ghilina was preoccupied. While keep her right hand gestured towards Briala, the old elven woman brought her other up towards the archers, and a bolt of lightning came down from the sky. It didn’t just strike the archers, it obliterated the rock they stood on, sending the wall crumbling down, and all those remaining on it with it. They tumbled into the charred corpses of those directly hit.

Briala saw a swordsman charge at Ghilina from behind, and she fired a bow past the woman’s shoulder and right into the soldier’s helmet. It pinged off, but the blow sent him wavering, which gave a Dalish elf on a halla the opportunity to take him down with her axe. But while they were able to defend Ghilina from that attack, they were too slow to stop her from being hit with a giant fireball that sent both Briala and the other elf flying backwards.

Ghilina didn’t even scream. One minute she was there, and the next, there was nothing left but a horrible smell in the air. Briala screamed for her, and then she kept screaming. The smell. The heat on her skin. It was Hamashiral all over again.

She pulled herself off the ground and looked up at the mage responsible, a middle-aged human lady in robes from the circle in Val Royeaux. Briala charged at her head first, knocking the older woman off her feet. She pulled an arrow out of her quiver and jammed it down into the woman’s eye, then repeated the action two more times, wailing as she did. She might have even kept going, had a soldier not taken a swing at her. Briala rolled off the dead woman and drew one of her daggers out, in a fluid motion swinging it across the soldier’s throat. But where that soldier fell, another replaced him. Briala had no choice but to drop her bow and take out her other dagger, parrying the axe that came down on her and kicking the soldier between the legs. She then elbowed the soldier in the chin, tilting his helmeted head backwards and opening the neck up for Briala to slice it open as well.

The motions started to blur together, as did everything around her. She saw halla dragging a flaming aravel around the courtyard, until a soldier threw a flask that spilled black tar on the ground, and they all slipped right into the swords of the attackers. She saw an ill-looking woman carrying an infant in a sling around her shoulders running past, only to be mauled to death by a war-hammer. She saw a frightened mage backed into a wall, sheathed in flames, only to melt into a deformed, unrecognizable creature short of getting cut down by the number of circling soldiers. She saw all of this, but could not even register it. Could not do anything but continue to defend herself against her own incoming attacks.

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” said someone from behind Briala. She turned around just in time to move out of the way from the Templar from Sahrnia’s swinging sword. He may have patched up his armour from the damage she did, but his sword arm must have still hurt, judging by such a clumsy move. Briala tried to recall his name, but couldn’t. Though it seemed he remembered her; the clenched teeth and look in his eyes said as much. The Templar made another attack, this time attempting to bring his sword down on her, enabling an easy parry.

The Templar raised his sword again. Briala unfolded her crossed daggers and tried to jab them into his sides as she did in their first fight, but he saw the move coming and sidestepped her. This also opened him to lower his sword over her back. In that instant, Briala expected it to all end, but instead, the Templar used the flat of his blade to only knock her to the ground, not sever her.

He wasn’t still wounded. He was holding back.

 “Surprised, _Marquise?_ ” Shouted a mocking voice that sent shivers down her spine. Briala rolled over and started to rise when Gaspard de Chalons himself made his appearance, bashing her in the chest with his shield. She staggered back down to the ground, and the Templar dropped his weapon to pin her there.

More soldiers folded in around her. They then pulled her arms together behind her back and she felt a heavy cord wrap around her wrists, tied so tightly it was a strain to move her fingers. The Templar yanked her up by the hood of her coat, and pulled her hair, tilting her head back for Gaspard to stick the end of his sword below her chin.

Briala closed her eyes. They failed. _She_ failed. Now she would pay the price with her life. And Briala couldn’t bring herself to feel any grief about that.

 

“No wit left, then?” Gaspard teased her, and she felt the cold metal against her skin pull away. “No jests? No lies? I’m disappointed.” He was goading her, trying to squeeze even more glory out of his impending victory. She would not give it to him. “Aren’t you even curious how we found you?”

She didn’t answer, didn’t have to, with the Templar too eager to join in the gloating. Another soldier took to holding her in place while he joined Gaspard’s side, and pulled a vial tied around his neck out from under his armour.

“There’s something beautiful about a phylactery, don’t you think?” He said, looking at the glowing red vial dangling from his hand. If Briala’s head was in a better state, she might have been able to better recall what a phylactery was.

“You can thank your mage friend for our reunion. Or her blood, if you care for specifics.” At that prompt, Briala remembered hearing Celene speak of a phylactery before; all she knew was it was something people could use to track down Madame de Fer, and thus she had to hide it outside the Circle, with her new position as Court Enchanter. If the Templar had somehow managed to use the same magic for Ethena…

A childlike shrilling scream suddenly cut short made Briala wince. She didn’t want to hear any more. “Just kill me and be done with it.”

“I will,” Gaspard assured her, then cupped her chin and forced her head to turn, overlooking at the battle around them. “But what kind of man would I be to deprive you of the show?”

 

Briala was wrong. This wasn’t a battle, it was a slaughter. Dalish bodies were strewn across the ground. While some still showed movement, clinging to life, most were motionless. They even killed the halla. There were many Chalons-cladded soldiers littering the ground as well, though. It was a comforting thought, to know that at least they could take a few of them down with them. But for every elf that had fallen, there were two of Gaspard’s army still standing.

The elves remaining had all formed a protective circle around someone. Briala noticed Mina was among them, her giant magic sword held in a defensive position. She couldn’t spot Ethena or her family, though. All the soldiers were closing in on the circle, obscuring Briala’s view as much as the tears in her eyes, now. The only thing she could see sticking out from the centre of the elves was the end of a tall, gnarly looking wooden staff.

_Hanin_.

Then the circle broke. Mina and the others charged at the soldiers in a last stand. Briala expected to see them attack the soldiers, go out in a blaze of glory, but instead, they ran right _past_ them. They ran to the far ends of the courtyard, leaving Hanin alone in the middle of the army.

The young mage girl lowered her staff, and one of the soldiers quite literally _exploded._ The remains flew in a burst outwards, and when those pieces hit the other soldiers, they exploded too. In a grotesque chain reaction, Briala watched the humans go up in a bomb.

Hanin had single-handedly wiped out every single soldier but the ones holding Briala captive, who were just as awestruck as she was.

 

It lasted for only a moment, but it was the moment needed for the Dalish elves that had scattered away from the contagious magic Hanin casted. They charged at Briala’s captors. Realizing this, Gaspard yelled for the man holding Briala to lower her head. He did so with a jolt that hurt her neck and made her head spin, and Briala knew what would come next. She squirmed, and two other soldiers grabbed hold of her by the shoulders. Their grip barely lasted a second before Briala was knocked over with the rest of them by two charging halla. One directly head-butted the man that was holding Briala with its horns, piercing the abdomen and drawing blood. Briala shimmied herself away from the entanglement of men trapped under both Gaspard and the Templar in their heavy plate mail. She was able to then get up on her knees, then feet, and ran towards the first elf she saw. Realizing that her hands were tied around her back, the Dalish elf drew a knife from their boot and was quick to cut her bounds. Briala felt a rush of life back into her fingers, still numb and prickly feeling, and looked back at the remaining soldiers. In an extremely satisfying sight, she watched Mina’s sword come out through the templar’s chest, then jerk upwards, slicing his head almost perfectly in half. Then she noticed two elves make their way towards Gaspard, who was limping backwards as they approached. Briala ran forward.

“Stop!” She cried. They looked up at her in confusion. “Don’t kill him. _Yet_ ,” she added, when she saw they were about to disregard her words. The two looked at each other, and in an act of trust, dropped their weapons and went to bind the Duke. He put up less of a struggle than she would have thought.

They won. Over a hundred soldiers, and they won.

But at what cost?

 

Everything came back into focus, now. The smell of burning flesh once again hit Briala like a brick wall. She tried to breathe through her mouth instead, only to then taste the death on her tongue. How many had fallen? She tried to do a quick headcount. There were eleven, no, twelve elves standing. She heard the painful cries of several more around them, wounded but alive. One cry in particular rang far heavier. It was not from physical pain, but a place much deeper. Briala darted her eyes around until finally she found Ethena, hugging the bloody body of Sulan and rocking back and forth. She herself had an arrow sticking out of her side, but didn’t seem to pay notice.

As if only now realizing that the fight was over and she was being stared at, Ethena’s wails came to a halt, and she looked up. Her face of despair morphed into a blank and empty look, and she gently set Sulan’s body down before standing up and slowly walking towards the gathered group around Gaspard. When Ethena picked up a discarded dagger off the ground, Briala held up her hands in a defensive gesture.

“He needs to be taken to Val Royeaux,” she tried to hastily explain, “be executed for treason.”

“ _Treason?_ ” Gaspard barked. “What treason is defending Orlesian land from elven harassment? I have committed no treason.”

Briala ignored him. She would see him hanged for what he did, if it took every bit of pull she had in the Game. She wanted nothing more than to jab her dagger down his throat at that very moment, but she reminded herself that a slow arrow is sometimes the better choice for longer lasting change. “If we kill him today, it will only make him a martyr for all the pigs like him!”

“I don’t care,” Ethena said, her voice hollower than a drum. And just like that, she drew her weapon and fired a magic arrow right into Gaspard’s left eye.

 

The Grand Duke slumped forward, dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the most difficult chapter to write to date... Comments/critique is especially appreciated on the battle. Also just, you know, general reassurance that you don't hate me...? Though I wouldn't blame you.


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a forewarning to anyone who is sensitive to depressing thoughts: Ethena is in some serious grief right now, and so her portion is a little weighty. I wrote a lot of it when I myself was going through a particularly depressive episode, but did end up editing things so it's not quite so bad. It should be fine, but I thought I'd give a heads up.

It took four days to bury all their dead. And if you asked Ethena what all happened in that four days, she wouldn’t be able to tell you much beyond digging.

Before the sickness, the clan numbered at fifty-seven. Before the attack, the clan numbered at thirty-two. And before even more of the injured succumbed to their wounds, there were nineteen. Now only fourteen remained. Fourteen to burn the soldier’s corpses, as per Briala’s suggestion—apparently that was the Andrastian custom. Fourteen left to clean up the keep, sift through what was salvageable of their belongings and what they had to dispose of. Fourteen left to collect their dead and give as proper a funeral as they could for so many.

It was all too much to handle. And so Ethena dug. She dug graves for every family, until her hands were covered in blisters and she could barely pry her fingers off the shovel’s handle. Ethena blinked and suddenly her mother, Nahum and Sulan were in the ground, caressing oak staves and cedar branches, their bodies wrapped in birch bark. She blinked again another grave joined them. With each blink the line of burials grew, resting on the side of the mountain in the shadow of the giant statue of Fen’Harel. Perhaps it was for the best, that she felt so empty, so hollow. Emptiness made it easier not to break down and cry, though she felt like she was on the verge of doing so at every second of every minute of every hour of every day.

 

Ethena tried to tell herself it was the Orlesian noble’s doing. But the demons, they were relentless. She laid in the undercroft, curled up among the other survivors in a giant pile, desperately trying to ignore the whispers in her head. _This is your fault. You did this. You and your recklessness._ If she never went after the humans, never got caught, never let that fucking Templar get her fucking blood… The others acted courteous, but she knew they knew it too. They had to.

Worst of all, she killed the only people she could think of to talk to. It was times like this she wanted nothing more than to hear Nahum tell her something encouraging, hold her mother tightly, watch Sulan sew together clothes for his toys and know that everything would be okay, because a piece of her sister still lived on. Damnit, she even missed Sav, on some level.

 

She thought about talking to Briala, but didn’t want to burden her, when she had helped her with so much already. That didn’t seem fair. Besides, the city elf had returned to the city, temporarily. Hanin and the new Dirth'hahren replacing Ghilina were discussing who to write to for assistance. There were no other Dalish clans close by; while Hanin penned her letters requesting aid, it could be weeks before they would even hear back, let alone hopefully receive any elves willing to leave their clan for Aradin’s. And so Briala gave them the most incredulous look. _“What is it you need?”_ she had asked. _“Supplies? People? Give me a day in Halamshiral and I could bring you hundreds.”_ While it was agreed hundreds was quite excessive, Briala disappeared through the small eluvian in the undercroft, with a promise to return with necessities and a handful of volunteers, who she was very sure of having no problem attracting.

There were some who were pessimistic about the likeliness of her return, but Ethena knew she would. Something told her Briala was dealing with her own bit of guilt, as absurd as that was.

 

Ethena sighed and gave up trying to fall back asleep, sitting up and causing the elf beside her to stir. It would soon be time to rise anyway. She folded up into a kneeling position and stood, before carefully making her way to the door, stepping between the elves sleeping all over the floor. While Ethena tried to tell herself it wasn’t all that different from the old dwarven caves they camped in during the winter, she couldn’t help but feel closed and confined under so much stone. At least the caves had ceilings taller than trees, and craftsmanship you could be sure wouldn’t cave in on you. Meanwhile half of Suledin Keep was already crumbled. Though in truth, it wasn’t the architecture that made her hate the keep so much. It was the ghosts that lingered everywhere she looked.

Ethena made her way up to the square just below the tower, where a collection of human-made statues stood at every wall and corner. At the centre was what she was pretty sure was a shrine to Andraste. Ethena looked up at it and frowned; she never did understand why the humans portrayed their ‘prophet’ so daintily. Andraste was a _fighter_. She didn’t free the elven slaves with the petite arms Orlesian sculptors gave her. But then again, Ethena supposed the humans liked to forget that part about her. As they did many things that weren’t convenient for _them_.

Filled with a petty twist in her gut, Ethena cursed and involuntarily pushed a telekinetic blast outwards. The stone shrine cracked and a spider-web of crevices appeared all over the sculpture, small chips breaking free. With the release of magic came a release of emotions, flooding her all at once and sending her crumbling to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably for the first time since _that day_. She could only beg her family’s spirits would not see her tears, and be drawn away from the path to the Beyond.

 

After minutes passed that felt like hours, she tried to calm herself, remembering what Briala had said before. She tried to focus on the crusty stone beneath her, the spring peepers chirping, and the misty air. She tried to breathe in and out at a steady rate, until all she thought about was inhaling and exhaling. By time she was just about collected again—at least as much as she could be—she heard rickety wheels pulling up beside her.

Ethena sniffed, and got up off the stone. “Hahren. I just needed a… a moment.”

“No rush,” Elgar’athim said softly.

Elgar'athim was nearly 90 years old, but didn’t look a day over 60, with short white hair, light brown eyes and warm, dark brown skin. Ze liked to joke that zir youthful preservation was a side effect of being _ashe_ , the third and less common gender, but Ethena was half-inclined to believe it. With Ghilina dead, the two other remaining Hahrens elected zir as the new Dirth'hahren, a position ze took to quickly. She supposed ze had to, but it was still impressive, especially given Elgar’athim had lost both of zir legs in the fight, the first to a sword, the second having to be amputated. Fortunately, Briala drew a crude picture of a device she said elderly nobles sometimes used, when they could no longer walk, one that their craftsmen were only too happy to distract themselves with. It was simple, really; a chair but with four wheels on it, taken from an abandoned trolley and wheelbarrow. While it was clearly less of a struggle to push, Elgar’athim was the type of stubborn only a Dalish could be, and mostly demanded on moving zirself around. Including, apparently, on very early morning treks around the keep.

 

Ethena was about to excuse herself when she realized that perhaps it was fortunate to run into the Hahren. Biting her lip with hesitancy, she dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a pouch of canavaris seeds and held it outward to the elder elf. “I need… to talk,” she said. “Though I have nothing more to gift you.”

Elgar’athim gingerly took the pouch of seeds, loosened the strings and plucked one out and popped it in zir mouth. “What’s troubling you?”

Ethena snorted. “What _isn’t?_ ” Elgar’athim waited patiently for her to continue, however. “Our gods… they really have left us, haven’t they.”

“Through no will of their own,” Elgar’athim reminded her. “You know the story, Da’len. _He Who Hunts Alone_ used his tricks and traps to lock the Creators away in the Beyond.”

“Then why do we pray to them?” she threw her hands up, “why devote ourselves to gods who let _this_ happen? If the story of Elgar’nan’s tears is true, of his interference from the Beyond to speak to Aradin, why would he sit back and watch our clan suffer like this? _It’s not fair, Hahren._ ” Ethena could feel the tears coming back again, and quickly steeled herself.

Elgar’athim nibbled away at more seeds, before finding zir words. “Our young Keeper sent the last of our letters to our fellow Dalish last night. This one to our good friends, Clan Taralen.”

“What can Clan Taralen do?” Ethena humoured the seemingly change of subject. Clans Aradin and Taralen were both the best of friends and the worst of rivals at the Arlathvhen, but if any clan was capable of helping them, it would be them. She just didn’t see how they were in any position to do so. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad Hanin reached out, but East Ferelden isn’t exactly next door.”

“Why does that make you glad?”

“I don’t know. Peace of mind, I guess. Connection.”

 Elgar’athim raised an eyebrow, sitting in silence. Ethena scrunched up her own, confused, until she realized what ze was inferring. Satisfied with seeing Ethena come to this realization, ze continued. “And do we not still feel the warmth of Elgar’nan’s sun? Do we not still use the teachings from June to craft our bows? Do we not pray that our dead will follow the path to the Beyond, carved by Falon’din?” Ethena nodded with each reminder. “That the Creators cannot interfere directly does not mean they are not with us. Nor does it mean they do not care.”

Ethena closed her eyes. “It’s still hard sometimes.”

“Yes, it is,” Elgar’athim agreed, to her surprise. “And sometimes, it is easy. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t always try.” Ethena kept her eyes closed, reflecting on zir words. When it was clear she had nothing more to say, Elgar’athim placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You know, your sister once asked me the very same thing, after your father died.”

“She did?”

Elgar’athim nodded. “And I told her exactly what I told you. Do you know what her response was?”

Ethena smiled. “Probably, ‘that’s a load of shit?’”

“A bit more colourfully, but certainly the gist.” At this, Ethena couldn’t help but give a light chuckle, at least the first attempt to make one since _that day_. She could picture her sister so easily in such a moment, her back straightened, arms crossed, lips pursed, ready to bite the head off of life itself. While her sister may not have thought so—her sister was a proud Dalish elf, but never the most devout—Ethena found Elgar’athim’s words comforting. It helped. Well, at least with _one_ of her troubles.

“Thank you, Hahren.”

“You need not bear the weight of your troubles alone, Ethena. We are all grieving. The clan will always be here for you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she lied, and kissed zir forehead. “I think I will see if one of the watchers would like to be relieved… Wait a minute, what are you doing up so early, anyway?”

Elgar’athim swallowed the last of the seeds and tucked the pouch between the edge of zir seat and thigh. “Intuition that I was needed, I suppose.” And with that, ze wheeled away.

 

In actuality, Ethena walked across the edge of the giant crumbling pit of the Keep’s most dilapidated side, towards the graves. The ground was not fertile enough to plant trees above them, as many Dalish clans did, and so there were no markings. But Ethena didn’t need any markings to know where each body was.

She stood on top of Asher and his wife and daughter, and recited an elven prayer for the dead. Then she moved onto the next grave, and did the same, until ending with her family. It was something she found herself doing repeatedly ever since _that day_.

“ _Ir abelas, ar tel’enasalin var vhen_ ,” she tagged on at the end, in a low whisper.

Ethena laid down on top of the burial and pretended she too could sink into the earth, where she couldn’t fail anyone else.

 

* * *

 

Hearing that the elven protest at the Summer Bazaar went off smoothly was encouraging, but Briala was hoping for more of a reaction. While word of mouth was a strong force, there were no reports in the newsprint, no word spread beyond those who were there to witness it, and those they whispered to in dark corners. No doubt the University’s doing—after all, it was easy to cover up backlash to their mass elven expulsion when nearly everyone behind the mainstream printing press was a former student. It was clear that if they wanted to send a message to the nobles that wouldn’t be ignored, they had to take a more direct approach.

While Briala had prepared all that she could gather to bring back with her to Emprise du Lion, she asked her agent Disirelle to gather every bit of information she could about the upcoming Spring Fête. Disirelle had been a good friend from the days they both worked for Celene, and remained as such now, even knowing she was risking death were she ever to be caught. Now that information was tucked safely in Briala’s pack, written hastily in a code she knew just as well as Orlesian and Common. Celene cared too much about her image than to cancel the annual event; Briala was not surprised in the slightest to get confirmation that it would indeed take place, though to still call it a Spring Fête wasn’t exactly accurate, when it was set to take place on the 10th of Molioris, a week after Summerday. It would make for lovely weather, though. Of all the noble gatherings Briala had spent hovering in the shadows, the Spring Fêtes were always her favourite, simply for being held outside in the Royal Palace gardens rather than in a ballroom. And now thinking about what a tactical advantage that was, she liked it even more.

If only she could be in two places at once. Even with the eluvians offering fast travel from what would normally take days, Briala felt like she was being pulled in two different directions. On one hand, her agents needed her. On the other, so did Clan Aradin. And given the role she played in their most recent catastrophe, she felt an obligation to them.

 

Looking back at the wagon of supplies pulled by her scout, Noam, Briala knew this was only a bandage for a wound that needed stitches. When her parents were killed, she focused on fleeing. When she was done fleeing, she focused on enacting revenge. When she thought she killed the one responsible for their deaths, she focused on serving the one really behind it. The method always held her together in the past, but eventually things always fell apart. She could no longer afford to only think of the immediate. And since she no longer had Felassan to remind her, she had to remind herself.

 

Briala held up her hand, signalling he party to stop. She turned around to face the group of elves, most with a mixture of fear and excitement on their faces. Looking at them all, she remembered how ludicrous the clan was, asking her how she expected to bring more people. As if every other elf in Halamshiral didn’t daydream about the Dalish someday swooping in and taking them away from their gutters. The difficult part wasn’t finding volunteers, it was finding volunteers discreetly, so not to attract too many, or too much attention to herself. From what she gathered, it wasn’t that the clan had distaste for elves of the city, like Clan Virnehn did. They just didn’t seem to understand. Not all of them, at least. Clan members like Mina, she understood. But Mina hadn’t spoken a single word to anyone since _that day_.

“This is the eluvian the passes into Suledin Keep,” she motioned behind her. “You can’t see them now, but it’s surrounded by possessed corpses trapped in the ground, their hands as strong as steel.”

“How did you get through?” Noam asked her.

“Very fast. But since that’s not an option, Cherry, Fritz, bring out the metal sheet.”

Cherry and Fritz were two of her runners, who when asked, were eager to help in a different aspect. Cherry was a slight young elven woman with bright orange hair, too conspicuous to work as a spy, and Fritz, while incredibly loyal and intelligent, had too many difficulties understanding people to play the Game. The two pulled a giant sheet of metal collected from a dismantled noble’s boat, and followed Briala’s instructions to slap the sheet down in front of the eluvian. Immediately upon doing so, the sheet quaked and shifted from the hands trying to push it off, a few grabbing from under the edges, but with the two standing over it, it remained in place. Noam passed a hammer and bag of metal spikes to Briala, who passed them to Cherry, who passed them to Fritz, and he began nailing down the sheet. It likely wouldn’t hold forever, but it would have to do for the time being.

 

One after the other, the city elves crawled through the eluvian, with much less coaching than it took to get them to enter the Vir’bora in the first place. Most of them were young, no older than their mid-twenties. Briala had opted to pop into the local elven tavern, half-heartedly rebuilt after _Le Grand Incendie_ , pulled out a halla horn borrowed from the clan, and slammed it down on the centre table. It was quite the gamble; there was a large risk that someone wouldn’t simply grab for it and run, with the intention of selling the horn for the hefty price it was worth to humans. But Briala weighed that risk as a test of character. And when everyone in the room simply stared at her in shock, she was confident in launching into her pitch. Nearly everyone accepted, and now nearly everyone was through the eluvian.

 

Briala nodded to Noam, who after unloading the cart of supplies, would return to Halamshiral. She noticed their eyebrows twitch, and mouth open just slightly before closing tighter than before.

“You wish to say something?” She prompted.

“It’s nothing,” Noam shrugged and looked away. “I just… well, some people were talking, is all. Wondering how long you plan on staying with these Dalish. And now they’ll wonder if you’ll even return for that noble party.”

“I will,” Briala assured them. “I can make this all work. I have to.”

Noam sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what the point of it all is. Seems like with every step forward, we’re pushed two steps back. As long as the humans have under their boot, they’ll keep us there.”

“Then we need to get out from under the boot,” Briala smiled as encouragingly as she could. She was about to follow the party, when she remembered one last thing.

 

“Oh, Noam, I have something I need delivered to the Val Royeaux palace. Discreetly, of course.”

“What is it?”

“Wait one moment.” Then she too rolled down over the metal sheet and through the mirror.

Popping out on the other side, Briala was immediately offered a hand to help off the floor. She accepted it to see the hand belonged to Mina. She looked so different with her hair now cut to her shoulders. Supposedly her enormous ponytail had gotten caught under the debris from the rock wall Ghilina sent crumbling down, and she was forced to use her spirit blade to cut it off. In Mina’s other hand was a square package, held together with a bright red ribbon, ripped off a banner from the Orlesian soldiers. With a satisfied smirk but no word, Mina handed Briala the package, who went back though the eluvian with it in her arms.

“Here,” Briala handed the package to Noam, who looked at it inquisitively.

“And again, I ask, what is it?”

“While it wouldn’t have been my first choice, one has to work with what they have,” was the only answer she opted to give. And Briala disappeared once more, feeling a hint of satisfaction for the first time since _that day_.

 

* * *

 

Celene reached the point in her day that tea could no longer hold off her headaches. She wearily made her way to her chambers, dragging her feet as she walked, the daggered heels shooting pain up her legs with each step. She was eager to strip down to her night clothes and fall into bed with her fiancé, who would surely join her in but a moment. Aurélie ran on the most precise clock Celene had ever seen; she supposed it must have come from her bardic training.

 

Sitting on her lavish bed was a wrapped parcel. That it was wrapped immediately put Celene on edge; she had servants check every delivery that made it into the palace for security reasons. For the parcel to look completely intact meant it made its way into her room without any screening.

Celene hesitantly stepped forward, and leaned in close. The package had a horrible smell, not poisonous, but like rotting meat. After staring at it for a moment, debating whether or not to call for its removal or indulge her curiosity, her curiosity won. Celene slipped off her shoes and used a heel to slice off the ribbon. The package fell apart and the head of Grand Duke Gaspard rolled out onto her bed.

Empresses did not scream, and Celene was Empress. Seeing that her nemesis was dead should have brought her satisfaction, but she recognized the message of the _gift_.

Briala was still alive. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.


	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Aradin decides a course of action. As does Briala, with or without the clan's help.

Felassan once compared Briala to a flower that if uprooted, would spawn a giant host of flowers to replace it, overtaking the whole patch. _“I have always loved the idea of life that could only grow from violence,”_ he said. Watching Clan Aradin dig their way out of the ashes of their deceased loved ones, she could now say she understood what he meant. In just a week’s time since their decimation, they both saw to the burials for their loved ones, and turned Suledin Keep into a livable fort. The humans in the nearby village either still believed the Keep to only be haunted by ghosts, or were too afraid to approach. After the impossible feat the clan pulled in defeating Gaspard’s army, they’d be stupid to even try. Even still, the elves took turns on lookout, both on top of the tower and above the front gates. Briala was quick to learn that “standing lookout” also meant someone needed to be alone for a while in their grief, a feeling no amount of work could make go away any sooner than it chose to.

 

Briala’s recruits were well received and of great help. They were eager, to say the least, afraid if they weren’t perfect, they’d be sent back to Halamshiral. When after the first night a teenage girl, probably the youngest of the bunch, told Briala it was the first day of her life she spent without being called a _knife-ear_ , it just about melted her heart. She was that girl, and it made her wonder what her life would have been like, had she found a Dalish clan like Aradin instead of returning to Celene’s side at Felassan’s suggestion, all those years ago. He teased her with a glimpse of a world without living in fear because of the shape of her ears and size of her eyes, and told her if she wanted that world, she needed to create it herself. For a long time, Briala thought that meant getting Celene to change things. She had made the mistake of thinking Celene’s love for her valued more than her love for public adoration. It was a mistake she paid for, but not one she would ever make again.

 

If she was an uprooted flower, so were all the elves with her. Forget taking over a patch. It was time to take the forest.

 

Beneath a massive ancient tree—one the Dalish regarded as special for a reason Briala did not know—a giant round table was set up. Above it was the tarp once used as the med tent tied to one of the tree’s branches, acting as a large slanted cover, as well as privacy. While the table was big enough to seat up to twenty people, Briala only ever saw a handful disappear behind the tarp; Hanin, the new Hahren leader Elgar’athim, and the rest of the few Hahrens. As such, it surprised her when the entire clan was called to join them after the evening meal. Hanin though, had asked her to speak privately beforehand, and so Briala finished her meal in a rush and left the other elves before Ethena even got the chance to sit down with her. She felt a tad guilty for that; ever since Briala returned the two had sat together for meal times. She appreciated the silent company, and figured the feeling was mutual.

 

Hanin was already there, waiting for her. Briala hesitated for a moment, seeing the young teen’s hair hanging loose. Up to this point, she had observed that Hanin tended to use hairstyles as a signification of gender, so far with two braids or just one, the latter being the style of choice while a boy for the past two days. Hanin recognized her unsureness and smiled with a bit of amusement.

“I’m still a guy,” he clarified, while pushing himself up from leaning against the table to sitting on it, and straightened his oversized vest so the intricate embroidery was flattened out and in full view. “And FYI, I don’t mind it if you want to call me _‘they’_ if you’re ever uncertain. Mind you not everyone feels that way,” he quickly added, and Briala tucked that information away.

“How are you doing, Hanin?”

Hanin lifted his hand and a tiny glowing orb appeared in his palm, making Briala flinch. He then casually started playing with said orb, making it dance over his fingers. “Oh, perfect, aside from the constant crushing stress of being the Keeper of a clan battling the threat of extinction,” he said with a far more nonchalant tone than the sentence deserved. Briala was getting used to this unique sense of humour from him. There was dry, and then there was _Hanin_ dry. “Anyway, important question: Just how many of your… agents… know how to work the eluvians?” It was hardly the first question he asked her about the mirrors; in fact nearly every conversation they’d had held that topic, Hanin’s curiosity with the magic being unquenchable. More often than not, Briala didn’t have answers for him, but this time, she did.

“Only a select few.” When she began organizing her rebellion, she was much freer with sharing the passphrase, but after an incident where she discovered one of her people was also one of Celene’s people, she knew she had to be far more careful. Ever since, only her most trusted agents knew how to work the eluvians on their own, and while it meant occasionally spreading her people thin, always having to have one of them whenever the mirrors were needed, it was a practice that prevented such a power from getting into the wrong hands.

Hanin bit his lower lip, and quickly peeked out behind the tarp to check if anyone else was around. Satisfied they were alone, he asked, “Is Cherry one of those few?”

Briala raised an eyebrow. “No… why do you ask?”

“There’s something… off about her.”

“Care to elaborate?” Briala crossed her arms, instinctively on the defensive. Cherry may not have been around for very long, but she was a good message runner, good at taking orders.

“You call the place the eluvians are connected to the _Vir’bora_ , right?” Briala nodded. “Well, I overheard her call it ‘The Crossroads,’ which seemed strange to me. And then there’s the fact that she’s trying to hide her magic—”

“—Cherry isn’t a mage.”

“Except she _is_ ,” Hanin assured, as if it was obvious. “And it’s weird magic, too. Feels weird, I mean.”

Accepting that apparently mages could sense other mages… “What does it feel like, then?”

It took Hanin a minute to answer. “ _Old_ ,” he finally settled on. “Like the kind of residual energy that sizzles all over our people’s ancient resting places. Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she should be dead.”

Briala was having a hard time believing this. She brought her hands up to her temples and began massaging them, thinking. Cherry coming up with her own name for the Vir’bora, that was strange but hardly worth concern about. But if she really was a mage with what apparently was an unusual ‘feel,’ well, what else was she hiding? “Thank you, Hanin. I’ll have a talk with Cherry, see what I can figure out.”

“Well, be careful.” Hearing that a few people were approaching the tent now, Briala went to take a seat at the other side of the table, before Hanin stopped her.

 

“Hey,” Hanin said, “are you ever going to ask me, or are you just going to pretend you’re not scared every time you look my way?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, I’m not blind,” he rolled his eyes, and the orb in his hand disappeared. “Ask me.”

“…What you did to Gaspard’s men, was it…”

“Blood magic?”

“Was it blood magic?” Briala finally asked. It was true, the thought had been on her mind ever since seeing all those men explode into gory chunks. She had to admit, Hanin was a more observant kid than she thought, for him to detect her uneasiness. Briala prided herself in keeping her thoughts hidden from her face. First Cherry, now this. Had he’d been raised as a noble’s servant, he would have made an excellent tool in the Game. It made her all the more thankful he was fortunate to grow up Dalish.

“No,” Hanin smiled. “It’s the school of spirit magic, no different than telekinetically moving rocks.”

“I would argue that making people explode is far from moving stones.”

“Except it isn’t, really. Both manipulate the ambient energy that surrounds every living thing, either by using it to lift something… or injecting a person with an infectious blast of it.”

To Briala it sounded outlandish to compare such things, but looking at Hanin, she realized that he at least truly saw them to be the same. While she was glad to hear he was not in fact a blood mage, the idea of there being magic all around her was a tad unnerving. To her, magic had always been something you _summon_ ; a blast of flame, or a giant sword. Just how powerful was Hanin, anyway?

 

The conversation had to be left at that, as the two were joined by two Hahrens, one pushing Elgar’athim’s chair. Hanin took his seat to the east, and soon the other Dalish adults joined them, all taking their seats as well, filling up the circle. Briala was flanked by Mina and Ethena, the former of which still hadn’t said a word. To _anyone_. It was starting to concern Briala.

Ethena offered her an attempted smile, and so she did the same. That’s when she noticed that the other woman had her hand dangling at her side. After a second of contemplating, Briala let hers drift down as well, and instantly found Ethena clasp her fingers in hers with a slight supportive squeeze. Her grip loosened, but neither let go.

 

“So,” Hanin said, before looking to Elgar’athim for a confirmation to continue, and with a nod from the Hahren, did so. “We’ve heard back from Clan Ghilain, and they’ve been gracious enough to offer four halla and one aravel to us. They’re on the way as we speak.” There was much chatter following this, some people ecstatic to hear good news of any kind, others saying out that a single aravel and a few halla was hardly enough to get excited over. “Hey,” Hanin got everyone’s attention again, “still talking here! Do we need a stick?” There was a chorus of no’s, though now Briala was greatly confused by what ‘a stick’ meant. “There’s more. We’ve also heard back from Clan Taralen… with an invitation to merge with their clan.”

There was no easy quieting for the uproar now. Some Dalish pushed back their chairs, jumping to their feet and pointing fingers at Hanin with rapid speech. Others turned to their seated neighbours and began their own arguments. Briala felt Ethena’s hand tense up, though she said nothing. On her other side, Mina was quietly looking down at the table. Briala and the rest of the city elves were left to watch in silence.

“Alright, that’s it, where’s the stick,” Briala heard Hanin say over the roar of voices. He then pulled out not a stick, but a feather, and held it up in the air. Immediately everyone quieted. She noticed a look of pride from all the Hahrens around him.

Hanin lowered his arm but kept the feather in hand. “I felt it right to come to a decision about this as a group. I know what it would mean. Leaving our home, the one that was supposed to be the end of our journey. Changing our way of life. But given the direness of our situation, I… well, I thought it right we at least discuss it.

“You all know the rules—wait, no you don’t,” it dawned on him. “Then an explanation for our newcomers from the city: Everyone will have a turn with the token. Only the person with the token may speak, while the rest must listen. If you’ve nothing to say, pass the token along.” And with that, Hanin handed the token over to the man on his left.

 

As Hanin said, everyone had their chance to speak as the feather was passed down the circle. There were some who said they found the offer itself downright insulting, and one accused Hanin of betraying their ancestors for even occupying the thought of leaving the highlands. Hanin listened to the verbal assault with a stoic face. There were some who tearfully said that there was no point in staying in Emprise du Lion with their loved ones gone, or that even with all the help they could get, it didn’t change the fact that the land and the waters were still poisoned, with no intent from the humans to fix it.

When the feather reached Mina, everyone expected her to immediately pass it to Briala. Instead, she spoke the first words in over a week, her voice croaky from going without use. “If we stay here, we’re dead.” She scanned everyone at the table intensely, pausing to leave that last word hang in the air. “In Verchiel, we used to joke that the Grand Duke decided on purging our alienage by flipping a coin whenever he was in the mood. There were no families who didn’t have a mother, father or sibling that wasn’t murdered, because do you know what the punishment is for elves breaking the law in Verchiel? Whatever the humans feel like. If you’re caught outside the alienage after dark, you risk your life. If you brush past a noble who considers it an offence to come in contact with you, you risk your life. If you so much as complain in earshot of a human about your living situation, you risk your life.

When I was starving and tried to steal a half-rotten apple, a chevalier witness convinced the crowd to let him cut off my hand instead of my head. If my magic didn’t manifest then and there as a force shield, and I didn’t flee the city to wander in the Highlands for weeks before finding you, I’d have probably died at the age of ten. _Ten_.

_That_ is the kind of city run by the man whose head we cut off and mailed to Empress Whats-her-face. And if you think for even a _second_ all his people just as bad as he was won’t be rallying for revenge, you are a naïve fool. This isn’t about history, or honour, or whatever anymore. We need to get out of Orlais if we want to _survive_.” Mina then practically shoved the feather into Briala, and looked like she wanted nothing more than to get up from the table and leave. She did not, however. Instead, she crossed her arms and returned to staring down at the wooden surface in front of her, as if focusing her eyes enough on it would burn a whole through the table.

 

Briala pinched the feather’s tip between her fingers, and rolled it back and forth for a moment. Most of the other elves from the city had simply passed the feather along without comment, save for one who wanted to know if leaving meant they’d have to return to the city. The Dalish elf to speak after quickly answered that no, they would never force that on them. But to Briala, this felt like the best opportunity she would get to speak of what they _really_ needed.

“Mina is right; as long as Clan Aradin resides on Orlesian soil, you will be hunted by those who will use the Grand Duke’s death as a rallying cry against the Dalish. They won’t care that it was in self defence. He should have been executed by the crown…” Briala felt Ethena’s grip tighten and release again. “…But what’s done is done. And at the end of the day, the red lyrium, Gaspard, all of it is only symptoms of a bigger problem: too long have humans ruled the land they once gave to _our_ people. The elves of Halamshiral shouldn’t have to fear being burned alive. You shouldn’t have to fear staying on your traditional land. We shouldn’t have to fear a justice system that was never built _for_ us, but _against_ us!

If the Inquisition is sympathetic to the plight of mages, maybe we can convince them to support our plight, too. The King of Ferelden counts the Bann of the Denerim Alienage among his advisors. Divine Victoria just opened priesthood to elves, and recanonized the Canticle of Shartan—whether you care for the Chantry or not, this is a big deal. Now is the time to do this! Now is the time to reclaim the Dales for the elves.

Whatever it is you decide to do, _I’m_ going to seek an audience with the Inquisitor. And then I’m going to find a way to contact the Divine. All while making sure the Orlesian rulers knows how unwelcome they are on _our_ homeland. If I can count on Dalish support, then all the better. If not, then so be it.” Briala gently sat the feather down in front of Ethena, when confident she had said all she wanted to say. Ethena looked at the feather, and passed it along silently.

 

The feather continued going around the circle, until making a full sweep without any more comments. Finally, Hanin held it again, looking incredibly uncertain of what to say. After an almost unnoticeable lip quiver, he took a deep breath. “I would like nothing more than for us all to stay here,” he said. “But as Keeper of the clan, my utmost responsibility is the safety of our people. Our children.” It was strange, hearing a child himself say such a thing. “And it is no longer safe here. So, what I propose is this: Those that wish to accept Clan Taralen’s offer should do so, and will be given supplies for the journey. For those of us who stay… I ask Briala to request protection from the Inquisition, and in return, promise our support… however hopeless it may be.” With a bit more gusto, he added, “Are there any challengers to this decision?” Hanin was answered with silence, and he put away the feather. “Alright then.”

 

“Are there any final matters before closing?” Hanin asked.

“There is one,” Elgar’athim said, placing a hand on the Keeper’s shoulder. “The Hahrens have come to conclude that, in acknowledgement of Hanin’s part in the battle with the human army, he is ready to make the _Elgarashiral_.” Hanin’s eyes turned to saucers, hearing this, and sharply inhaled, as Elgar’athim looked down to address him personally. “Though of course, given your position, we cannot permit you to make the trip yourself. Someone must retrieve the healing waters from the Pools of the Sun in your stead.”

“Thank you—I mean, _ma serannas, hahren!_ ” Like flipping a switch, Hanin’s disputation went from that of a kicked puppy to one who just received a treat, practically bouncing in his seat. Briala didn’t know what this _Elgarashiral_ was, but it must have been important.

 

With a few congratulations extended to Hanin, the group broke in preparation for an attempt at sleep. Briala found it almost strange to feel Ethena’s hand slip out of hers, and looked up to see the other woman nod at the direction of the underkeep. But instead of immediately turning to go, she held her gaze, and Briala found herself focusing on those pitch black eyes yet again. For the first time, she wasn’t quite sure how to read Ethena’s face. They parted without word.

 

Briala turned around and nearly bumped into Mina.

“I suppose you plan on going to Ferelden, then.”

“It’s a tough call, actually,” Mina replied. “The idea of sticking around just to watch you fail _is_ pretty enticing.”

“If you stick around, how could I fail?” Briala smirked.

“True” she shrugged, and it was surprisingly nice to see a glimpse at the person who not too long ago was swinging her giant magic sword in superiority. “Look, after everything, I… I guess I feel kinda shitty for being so shitty to you. I guess I feel I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I at least owe you this: Ethena is probably going to ask to go with you to Skygrab.”

“Skyhold.”

“Whatever. Point is, you should say no.”

Briala tilted her head. “Why?”

“You’re obviously trying to be her friend, and as good as your intentions may be, it is _really_ not healthy to get close to that woman.”

“How so?”

“Since you apparently haven’t noticed, people tend to die around her.”

Briala no longer found the conversation nice. She furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes. “That’s fine. People tend to die around me, too.”

“I’m not gonna tell you want to do,” Mina held up her hands in defence, “only suggest you ask Ethena what happened to her brother-in-law, after her sister died. You might change your mind about her after that.”

It was clear Mina could tell that Briala was unconvinced, as she rolled her eyes and departed without another word. Briala recalled Ethena telling her that her sister’s husband died shortly after Sulan was born, but failed to elaborate beyond that. She could hardly blame her for not immediately delving into personal family background with a near stranger. But what if Mina’s warning had even a hint of truth to it?

No. Briala couldn’t think that way. Ethena was victim to bad circumstances, and she could no more fault her for that than she could fault herself for her own.

…But still. Now the curiosity was now there. And she wasn’t sure how to get rid of it, other than taking Mina’s suggestion.


	15. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurélie has a visitor. Briala and Ethena prepare for their trip to Skyhold.

 

After stumbling up the front steps, Aurélie banged her fist on the front door to the moderately sized building just outside the Belle Marché. In the early hours of the morning, she was hardly the only one returning to her home after a night out from tavern to tavern, but it had been some time since Aurélie engaged in such activities. Usually she would still be in bed with Celene at this point. But Celene had been withdrawn as of late. Between rewriting her speech about Gaspard’s betrayal to his demise, the Spring Fête, and their wedding announcement at said event, she barely showed any attention to her fiancé. Aurélie was whoever her employer needed her to be, but how was she supposed to know who to be if Celene wouldn’t tell her?

Finally Jeannine Fontaine, Aurélie’s landlord and one of her most favourite people in the world, opened the door. Jeannine was like Aurélie, having been given a different gender at birth, but unlike Aurélie, she’d spent most of her life living as a man in order to please her stuffed up noble family. Only after her parents died did Jeannine start living for herself. Aurélie’s bardmaster could have bought her anything she desired in the world, but it was nothing compared to the _knowledge_ Jeannine gave her. She was a rather private old lady and didn’t like to talk much about herself, but Aurélie had a feeling her children weren’t so accepting of her. And so normally Aurélie was quite happy to play the role of an adopted daughter of sorts… though not when she was on the receiving end of such disapproving glares as the one she earned now.

“I lost my key,” Aurélie finally said, looking down at her bare feet. “And my shoes.”

“And a tad of dignity.”

“I didn’t know I had any to begin with.”

Jeannine sighed and rubbed at her eyes. She had clearly still been in bed, wearing an old nightgown, and her hair was still tied up in curling rags. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“You don’t have to do that, I just need your balcony.” It was right beside the one to Aurélie’s place, and without keys, the only way Aurélie had into her own apartment.

“I’m not letting you near the balcony until I’m convinced you’re sober enough not to fall and break your neck.” Jeannine stepped aside and motioned for Aurélie to come in. She did so with a sheepish smile, and removed her copper mask with rose quartz gems, signifying her new status as Aurélie du Paraquette. Celene had asked her to start establishing this, and Aurélie was whatever Celene her to be.

 

Jeannine began fuddling away in her kitchen, while Aurélie took a seat at her dining table and began looking over the newest collection of flowers sitting as a centrepiece. On the outside, the building looked like any other of middle social standing, with layers upon layers of blue paint to cover up the rot, and yellow trim to imitate the nobility’s gold. But inside Jeannine had made her place into something far more akin to a backwater cottage. Be it another rejection of her noble origins, or an attempt to seek comfort away from the constant bustling outside, Aurélie surprisingly loved the quaintness of it all.

“Trouble in paradise I take it?” The elderly woman asked while she began pouring water into the silver coffee maker.

“Love is many things. I may not be the most knowledgeable of it, but I don’t think paradise is one of them.”

“That’s funny,” Jeannine chuckled, “because the last time we talked, I don’t recall a sentence said that didn’t start with ‘Celene…’”

“We’re getting married, you know.”

“Oh, well then, I’m sure that will solve _all_ your problems.” Though she had her back to her, Aurélie could tell Jeannine was rolling her eyes.

Aurélie huffed. “Celene has been… withdrawn, lately.”

“Withdrawn how?”

“She hasn’t tasked me with anything in the past few days. Unless you count accompanying her to the bathhouse. At first I thought she was unsatisfied with the requested quick death of a few suspicious kitchen servants, but now I don’t know.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeannine turned around after the grounded beans were in place, “you’re complaining because she’s _not_ asking you to do things?” Aurélie nodded her head, and Jeannine in turn laughed.

“I don’t see how my lack of use for her is so funny,” Aurélie curled her lip.

“No, you’re right. There’s nothing funny about you still thinking you don’t deserve your own brain in your head.”

It was a conversation they had many before. Jeannine made it very clear she did not approve of Aurélie’s line of work, and especially all the teachings from her bardmaster. It was a conversation that had of course, eventually led to her bardmaster’s demise. “You need to kill that old bat immediately” she had said. “Before she fills your head with lies.” And so Aurélie pushed her out her window, and looked down at the pool of blood swelling around her head stain the grass green. That her bardmaster failed to understand why it was the logical course of action was only proof her value was waning, whereas Jeannine, the “old bat” who offered Aurélie both a place to stay and care, was of much more use. Looking back of course, Aurélie realized she had already begun caring for Jeannine in return as well, but would have never admitted it. Maker, she’d have a hard time admitting it _now_. It was a failure on her part, of course, and probably why she kept Jeannine a secret from Celene. Aurélie was whoever Celene needed her to be, and if she didn’t tell Celene about Jeannine, then there wouldn’t be any reason that person couldn’t keep Jeannine in her life.

 

Jeannine could tell the conversation would have went sour if she pressed it, so instead she changed the subject by asking about their marriage. Aurélie told her about how she was now officially a du Paraquette, and to her surprise, the elder had a bit of knowledge to offer about the family. They talked over their coffee until Aurélie could feel her brain grow less fuzzy, and Jeannine finally let her out onto the balcony.

“Please don’t fall,” she said one last time.

“I haven’t yet.” Aurélie grinned and stood up over the railing. She then jumped and grabbed onto the bars of her own, and was able to pull herself up and over. Jeannine disappeared back inside and likely back to sleep, while Aurélie went to wiggle open her window.

 

Except it was already open.

 

Aurélie took a breath. She definitely did not leave the window open herself, but there was no possible way someone could reach the balcony from the ground. Otherwise she never would have woken up Jeannine herself… Unless they dropped in from the _roof_ , she realized, looking down at a few bits of shingling at her feet. She then looked back up to see that sure enough there were bits of cracked roofing around the edge, as if someone had placed too much weight there. Possibly from hanging down in order to drop onto the balcony from a lower height.

The question remained, if they were still inside.

 

Aurélie reached down for the knife she kept in her boot, and cursed herself, remembering that she lost said boots at some point during the night. After thinking for a moment, she pulled the large jewelled hairpin out of her loose bun, in the process sending the strawberry waves roll down her shoulders. She examined the pick part closely; it would by no means cut, but it would stab.

Brandishing her hairpin, Aurélie slipped through her window as the invader did.

 

She walked around the corner expecting to see any sign of burglary, but given that Aurélie was not the tidiest of people, if the intruder did make a mess, it would fit right in with the one she herself created. She rarely ate in her own home, favouring the hundreds of breakfast, lunch and dinner spots around Val Royeaux, or as of late, enjoying the fanciful cooking at the Royal Palace. As such her kitchen was the only place that was mostly untouched. Everywhere else could have passed as a victim of a hurricane. Various noble masks were strewn across the apartment, hanging on the corner of paintings, or the back of a chair. Most of her furniture doubled as a clothing rack, as she often threw things down with the intent of putting them away in her dresser, but never getting to it. The floors weren’t much cleaner than the market square outside, the windows had never been cleaned for the almost decade she’d been living here, and Aurélie would be the first to admit she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to actually make a bed.

 

When Aurélie entered her bedroom, she saw that her intruder was either greatly disturbed by this mess, or greatly fascinated by the somewhat-dirty-but-not-quite-ready-to-wash-yet bra hanging off of the stolen bust of Andraste sitting atop her vanity.

 

“Ah, good. You’re here,” sang _le Mage du Sang_. Were it not for his easily recognizable honeyed voice, she would never have recognized him. Instead of the bright and fancy garments he sported the last time they met, he dawned pitch black rogue leathers, not unlike the ones she herself owned. His salt and pepper cornrows were shadowed by a large hood, and his upper face shadowed by a pure black mask, stark and designless. “I was starting to wonder if I really did have the right place, what with the, well, _state_ …”

“How did you find where I live?” Aurélie asked, setting her hairpin in the pocket of a coat hanging off her bedroom door.

The Rivaini man smiled. “I know everything about you. That’s what I’m paid for, remember?”

“So what do I owe the pleasure, Ser Mage?” Aurélie walked passed him and sat down on her bed, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.

He opened up the satchel draped over his shoulder and pulled out an envelope, sealed with bright red wax. “Here you are. Anything and everything of note about your life thus far.” Aurélie accepted the envelope and found herself staring down at it. Her whole life, in a small collection of papers.

“These should be discarded immediately,” she said finally.

“You mean you’re not going to read them?”

“Why would I? My past matters nothing to Celene.” Aurélie was whoever Celene needed her to be, and there was nothing in this envelope that contributed to that.

“Catherine,” he said, startling her slightly by addressing her as the name she’d chosen as a young girl, and not the one picked by her bardmaster. “I think there’s something in there you should see.” The honey in his voice was gone, leaving it hollow. Almost pitiful. Aurélie narrowed her eyes, and looked back at the envelope.

 

Realizing that Ser Mage was not going to leave until she did as he said, Aurélie finally cracked opened the wax seal. Out slid the few items inside.

The first to immediately catch her attention was an ink drawing of her mother. It was breathtaking to see, having lost but the faintest of details to her memory, but she recognized thick and long locks of wavy hair loose around her face, and the tiredness of her eyes captured perfectly by whoever the artist was.

The second put her heart to a halt.

“This can’t be right,” she whispered, staring down at the record before her.

“I can assure you it is.”

“I’m…”

“An elf. From the alienage.”

“I have…”

“A brother.”

“He’s…”

“Been looking for you for over 20 years.” Ser Mage nodded his head with every sentence he finished for her, while Aurélie was in near shock. No, there had to be something wrong. Her bardmaster had found her without a family, and reminded her as much often. She remembered that. She remembered standing on the streets, singing for hours until her throat went hoarse and waiting for some kind soul or another to drop a copper in her tin cup. She remembered when her bardmaster’s carriage stopped in front of her, and the large man with her scooping young Catherine up and sitting her inside.

…And now she could just _barely_ remember the older boy and his lute the man had to knock unconscious to do it.

“I’ll leave you to sort through the rest,” Ser Mage coughed awkwardly, realizing she was still mostly at a loss for words. “But a word of advice? This is exactly the kind of secret that would be better off silenced. _Especially_ if one is planning on marrying an Empress.” He then bowed gracefully and went to exit through the window he came in from, leaving Aurélie to the mess in her room, the mess in her hands and the mess in her head.

 

* * *

 

In the early hours of the morning, Briala was preparing to leave for Skyhold. She yet again found herself thankful for the Inquisition’s leftovers, as the map she pulled off the wall was far more helpful than the vague motion to the sky the Dalish offered when she asked if they had one. They even had the quickest path to Skyhold drawn out, and she was relieved to see it was even closer than previously assumed. By following the path outlined through the Frostback Mountains instead of around them, she figured she could reach Skyhold in just a few days.

 

Briala slid on the quiver she brought back from Halamshiral. She was incredibly relieved to have her own quiver for the hip… Though with her giant knapsack, her pair of daggers hanging on one side and the quiver on the other, and wearing her new set of blue leathers, she imagined she looked like she was preparing to go to battle.

If only she had been so prepared for when Gaspard had attacked…

 

The door behind her opened, and Briala immediately knew it was Ethena, since she’d picked up on the fact that she never bothered to knock. Sure enough, Ethena stood in the doorway, with a large knapsack of her own strapped to her back.

“Mina said you’d ask to come with.”

“I hate it here,” Ethena responded with surprising severity. “I hate every fucking crevice of this fucking keep. Because everywhere I look, all I see is…” She shook her head, as if swishing it back and forth enough would cast out the grief and guilt. “I need to _do_ something.”

“I understand,” Briala nodded, because truly, she did. Looking at Ethena in that moment, Mina’s words were forgotten. “You have good timing. I was about ready to leave now.”

“Wait!” Said Hanin, bursting through the door himself. Apparently Ethena wasn’t the only one who never learned how to knock.

Briala gave an amused smile. “ _You_ are not coming.”

“Which is why I have a favour to ask.” Hanin then pulled out a metal canteen. “You’re going through Judicael's Crossing, right? I mean, if you’re not that’s definitely the way you _should_ go…”

“We are,” Briala nodded, and looked to Ethena who was less interested in the conversation and more interested in examining the silver bow Briala brought back from Halamshiral.

“Then you’re going right past the Pools of the Sun. So… well… I was wondering if you’d be my _Halani'len_. And make the _Elgarashiral_ in my place.” He perked up suddenly, as something dawned on him. “I mean, maybe you could do it yourself, if you wanted; as Keeper I’ll formally recognize it.”

“I don’t even know what ‘it’ is,” Briala frowned.

“Okay, _so_ ,” Hanin set the canteen down on the table with the map in order to fully utilize his hands when talking, “in order to be considered a full-fledged adult member of the clan, everyone has to make the Elgarashiral; a trip to the Pools of the Sun. There you bathe in the healing waters, and when you return to the clan, you’re ready to receive vallaslin with Elgar’nan’s blessing. Except if someone is unable to make the journey themselves—maybe their health isn’t good, or maybe they’re like me and are considered too valuable to let go—someone can act as _Halani’len_ and retrieve a bit of the water _for_ them, and bring it back to the clan. Which is what I’m asking you to do.”

“But I don’t understand, what makes these ‘Pools of the Sun’ so special?”

Ethena answered this for her, drawing back away from the bow. “It’s said the hot springs were created by Elgar'nan, when he buried the Sun beneath the earth.” She lifted her hand to her face, touching the sun tattoo around her right eye. “It is from the Sun and the Land that our kind were born, and Elgar’nan was the first. But the Sun was jealous of life on the Land, and when He burned so brightly that it hurt Her, Elgar’nan retaliated by wrestling the Sun out of the sky and throwing Him down into the Abyss. If not for Mythal’s wise mediation, the world would still be in permanent darkness, but instead, it was agreed the Sun would shine during the day, but set each night.”

“And the Pools of the Sun still contain the heat from when the Sun was buried below,” Hanin concluded.

Briala gave a slight nod. This was a story she’d not heard from Felassan, and was curious to know more. That curiosity to see the Pools for herself, accompanied by her desire to repay Hanin for all he’d done for her, was most certainly enough to pick up his small canteen and clip it to her knapsack. Hanin beamed.

She also thought about what he’d said, that she could bathe in these supposedly healing waters herself. Become a full member of this clan she’d only known for a few weeks, yet felt intrinsically tied to all the same. But the idea of getting vallaslin… she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

 

“Well, alright then. Ethena, we should really get going.”

“There’s one more thing you need first,” Ethena said, grabbing the map and then and taking Briala’s hand to guide her out into the courtyard, leaving Hanin behind. She heard him call out a farewell as they trailed around the corner, and down a set of stairs to where a collection of weapons were kept.

Ethena stopped in front of a rack full of bows, and waved at it. “Pick one.”

“Is there a problem with mine?” Briala held the bow up. It had barely been used, the string still tight, no imperfections to be seen in the metal.

“It’s junk.”

“It’s silverite.”

“Like I said,” Ethena grinned, “junk.” Yet again, she motioned to the rack.

Briala stepped up to it with a sigh, but gave them a look over anyway. As far as she could tell, there was nothing special about them. Just a set of plain looking wooden bows, albeit with a strange blue tint to them, and some with fanciful carvings. She decided to humour Ethena by picking up one with a hawk’s head carved onto each tip, the drawstring in its beak, and was immediately surprised by how light it was.

“What is this?”

“Ironbark.” The value of what Briala was holding became apparent to her. She’d heard of ironbark, of course. A rare material that only the Dalish held the secrets of crafting with. She looked up to see that Ethena was no longer smiling, however. “…Can I ask why you picked that one?”

“The hawk is a symbol of Andruil, is it not?” She looked it over closely, “why, is there something wrong with it?”

“No, no,” Ethena shook her head, “it’s just… my mother made that one, is all.”

“Oh.” Briala felt her grip on the bow loosen. “I can pick another one, if you’d prefer—“

“No,” Ethena cut her off. “It’s a good bow. And she’d probably like you to have it.”

Briala felt the honour of those words. She dropped her silverite to the ground like the ‘junk’ it was, and equipped the ironbark. “Alright then.”

“Let’s go?”

“Let’s go.”


End file.
